


I have lied my way to the stars

by iiscos



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, and angst go hand in hand, obikin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anakin wavers in darkness, while Obi-Wan questions the light.</p><p>Or another post-RotS AU where Obi-Wan is captured on Mustafar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who discovered the Star Wars prequels only a decade too late? Guess who wants to write a Vader redemption fic after watching the entire series just once?
> 
> For the past three years, I have only written Football RPFs, which is nice because I literally just make stuff up. In other words, I have not done this much background research for a fic in my life, and I am overwhelmingly paranoid that my knowledge is inadequate and my attempt will inevitably bring dishonor to us all.
> 
> So please, please, if you happen to enjoy this story and come across some horrendous mistake, let me know so I can redeem myself. New fandoms are intimidating, especially one with such long history.
> 
> Feedback is loved and quite frankly, one of the greatest source of motivation.
> 
> And as always, thank you for stopping by!

"I have walked a stair of swords,  
I have worn a coat of scars.  
I have vowed with hollow words,  
I have lied my way to the stars."

**― Catherine Fisher, Incarceron**

~~

By the time Bail Organa lands on the volcanic planet of Mustafar, the dark, metal infrastructure of the Separatist base is already collapsing under the stress of the heat and lava. Padmé Amidala lies motionless on the landing dock, accompanied by only two skittish droids. Neither Kenobi nor Darth Vader is anywhere in sight.

Bail rushes to the senator’s side, carefully maneuvering her onto her back to lessen the stress on the swell of her belly. He exhales a shaky breath, only after finding a feeble pulse beneath the clammy skin of her neck.

Padmé’s eyes flutter open then, her gasp hitched and face ashen before finally recognizing the man above her as an ally. 

“Conserve your strength, Senator Amidala,” Bail whispers, calmly and gravely, “I will bring you to the nearest medical facility, on Polis Massa.”

“W—Wait,” Padmé protests as Bail motions to lift her, her hands weakly grasping the fabric of his robe, “Anakin and Obi-Wan—they’re still—Oh!”

Her small frame stiffens and spasms, her delicate features contorted in pain. Bail quickly takes her into his arms before any more protests can be voiced.

“There is little time to be wasted. We must seek medical attention now.”

~~

Padmé appears even sicklier, utterly exposed beneath the unyielding, fluorescent light of the medical bay. Her dark hair—thick and knotted with sweat—curls against her forehead and cheeks, while white teeth sink into colorless lips, drawing blood and dyeing her pale skin crimson. Bail takes her limp hand between his and watches with heaviness in his heart, as she screams from the pain that tears her body apart.

The medical droid whistles and beeps, handing Bail a small infant wrapped in sterile, white cloth. A boy, he understands.

“Luke,” Padmé breaths out, “Oh, Luke.”

Moments later, Bail holds a second child in his arms. A girl.

“Leia,” Padmé says, turning away, pained and with tears streaking her cheeks.

“Please be strong,” Bail urges, “These children, they need their mother. They need you.”

But Padmé can only shake her head, her eyes sightless, her heart broken. She dies with Anakin’s name on her lips.

~~

Obi-Wan can feel it—the hatred, the all-consuming rage—with each harsh blow against his lightsaber, each reckless strike hacking the hot, Mustafar air in two. There is no hesitation, no remorse hidden behind those golden irises brimmed with awful red. Anakin has fallen. Anakin is lost.

With every assault dealt by his former Padawan, Obi-Wan answers with his own, but the darkness has made Anakin more reckless—stronger in the crudest of ways—and single-minded in his desire to destroy. Their skirmish in the control room has caused the shields to collapse, the metal and glass of the Separatist base warping against the unrelenting heat. They managed to find footing on floating pieces of debris, their battle enduring despite the free flowing lava pooling inside the remnants of the base, engulfing everything in its path. 

One step forward and two steps back. It takes all of Obi-Wan’s focus and strength to stay on his feet. He cannot lose this battle—his own life aside—but a weakness in his heart is holding him back, reluctance stemmed from all those years of bonding and brotherhood, undoubtedly shaken by this cruel betrayal, but far from diminished despite the darkness consuming Anakin, consuming the galaxy. 

Actions can be brutal, severe—too crude to convey the complex deliberations of the mind or the delicate sentiment of the heart. Obi-Wan wishes he could use his words, to make some sense of this unimaginable predicament, to instill some reason into his former friend. But Anakin doesn’t seem interested in talking at all, releasing each blow with the sole intent to kill, and that in itself feels like pins of ice in Obi-Wan's chest.

The next strike ends in a stalemate, and Obi-Wan holds off Anakin long enough to work himself an opening, leaping onto the embankment overseeing the inferno below. 

“It’s over, Anakin!” he shouts, “I have the high ground!”

Anakin’s eyes are vicious and unrelenting, flickering with the senseless hatred of a man possessed. “You underestimate my power.”

“Don’t try it!” Obi-Wan warns—mentally _pleads_ —but Anakin has never been one to do as he is told. He leaps into the air, leaving his body open and vulnerable like a sitting-target practice for Padawans, and the course of action Obi-Wan must take is so obvious, so _instinctive_ —

He swings, but he aims for Anakin’s lightsaber instead, unsettling the younger man’s balance in midair before landing a harsh kick against his flank. Anakin tumbles to the ground, chin scraping against dark sand, but his body remains perfect, intact.

The young Sith stumbles to his feet, and Obi-Wan watches on, his muscles stiff and chest tight as he contemplates what he had just done—or more precisely, what he had failed to do. His ill-timed change of heart, his unwelcomed mercy, only seems to fuel Anakin’s anger, and the younger man lunges at his former master with increased ferocity, taking advantage of Obi-Wan’s indecision to knock the Jedi’s lightsaber from his hand with sheer force alone.

And without sparing even a moment for Obi-Wan to reflect on his fatal mistake, Anakin tosses away his own weapon, tackling the Jedi to the ground in place of dealing the final blow. 

“You did this!” Anakin shouts, his voice harsh and raw, on the verge of breaking. “You turned her against me!”

Obi-Wan coughs as a knee to his stomach winds him completely, sending him reeling, too shocked to formulate a proper response. They wrestle on the hot, scorching sand of Mustafar like younglings in a training brawl—punching, biting, kicking, and screaming. 

“Stop—stop this, Anakin!” Obi-Wan manages between dodging fists, as he stares into maniac, golden eyes. “You're mad, and t-this is—”

“This is your fault!” Anakin snarls, impervious to reason or the absurdity of his actions. “I won’t let you take her from me! I will become powerful and save her! I will bring peace and justice to the Empire, and I will save her!”

Obi-Wan feels a steely hand closing around his neck and struggles to twist free despite the heavy body pushing him down. Nothing about Anakin makes sense—not his words, not his actions—but Obi-Wan has little time to contemplate an answer, fearful of his life, Padmé’s, and countless innocents caught between the power war. 

“How can you be so blind, Anakin?” he eventually manages, forgoing precious air to croak out his pained words, “To allow darkness to twist your mind, to betray everything you once stood for and all the people who loved—”

“Shut up!” The awful scream tears from Anakin’s throat. “Do not lecture me about love! You betrayed me, Obi-Wan! You chose the lies of the Jedi over me—You failed me!”

“I know,” Obi-Wan swallows thickly, the ache in his chest unbearable, “I know I have.”

Empirically, Anakin is stronger, taller, and with fewer years of hardship weighing on his bones, but Obi-Wan supposes that at least experience is on his side—experience and relative clarity of mind. The ground beneath them quakes as lava seeps through the fractures, and Obi-Wan watches as the cliffs above stagger, surrendering rocks and sand to the blazing fire pit beneath. He singles out a rock the size of a trooper’s helmet and calls upon the Force to change—ever so slightly—the trajectory of motion. The blow to Anakin’s head knocks him unconscious, and Obi-Wan shoves the Sith off immediately, gasping to fill his burning lungs.

He summons his lightsaber, abandoned among the debris, and whirls the weapon to life—its ethereal blue a stark contrast to the demonic red of Mustafar. 

If it weren’t for the blood staining his hair and seeping into the dark ground beneath, Obi-Wan might think that Anakin is sleeping. He positions the lightsaber above the younger man’s heart, poised to execute, to rid the galaxy of this new, consuming darkness—but he cannot.

He loves Anakin—even in this moment of lucid realization that the Jedi council is no more, that _democracy_ is no more, and that innocent children have died at the hands of his former Padawan, who has turned to the very evil which the Jedi has sworn to destroy. Redemption, forgiveness, _normalcy_ cannot even be fathomed after all the unwarranted loss and destruction. Letting Anakin live would mean betraying all that is just.

Obi-Wan presses his eyes shut, acknowledging his weakness—this overwhelming sadness, this paralyzing fear, this sense of inconsolable loss. Even if he could betray the Jedi, even if he could steal Anakin away, where would they go? What galaxy would accept them—hunted by both light and dark—their survival made even less possible by Anakin’s unwilling participation in it all.

These are selfish thoughts—selfish and _inane_ —to think that Anakin deserves protection or excuses for his inexcusable actions. Obi-Wan has failed as a Master, failed as a friend, and he must endure his own punishment, beginning by making right of their wrongs.

Whatever strength Obi-Wan had beseeched from the Force perhaps arrived too late. The time squandered in hesitancy may have been mere seconds, but the mistake proves costly as a blaster strikes Obi-Wan on the shoulder, dislodging his lightsaber once more. 

Soon, he is surrounded by clones, who immobilize him and pull him away from Anakin’s motionless body. A dark aircraft descends on top of a nearby dune, casting embers and black sand into the scorching air. Darth Sidious, sinister and deformed beneath his cloak, exits into view.

“I sensed that Lord Vader was in danger,” the Sith Master greets, “And I cannot say I am surprised to find you here, General Kenobi.”

Strong hands grip onto Obi-Wan’s shoulders, twisting his arms painfully behind his back. They force him onto his knees, fingers threading through his hair, pushing his head forward and exposing his neck—an execution stance. Obi-Wan closes his eyes, wills his breath steady over the wild beating of his heart. Failure marks his life, his teachings, and even his death. He resigns to his fate, hoping the final blow is brief, even though such kindness is wholly undeserved.

“I must offer you my gratitude.” Obi-Wan can feel the sick smugness laced in Sidious’ voice. “You have shown that my young apprentice has much to learn.”

Those words dealt a physical blow, and Obi-Wan could not suppress the wince driven by the ache in his heart. _My young apprentice._

“But you will not die today, Jedi,” the Sith Master continues, as Obi-Wan is dragged to stand, “I can think of other uses for you.”

~~

“Bail!”

Breha rises to her feet, her long dress rippling from the sudden disturbance. She clutches her hands close to her chest, her knuckles pale from tension and worry. She had stayed awake all night, praying for her husband’s return. And now, dawn is merely moments away, a faint glimmer just beyond the cityscape of Alderaan. 

Bail steps into the light of their living quarters, holding an infant in each arm. 

Fear flickers in Breha’s eyes as they finally meet his. “What have you done?”

“These children,” Bail swallows thickly, “They are without mother. Or father.”

“Anakin Skywalker’s children?” Breha shakes her head, a wrinkle of disbelief etched between her brows. “A Sith Lord’s children?”

“Padmé Amidala’s children,” Bail reminds his wife of the years of amity that reached far beyond simple cordiality between Alderaan and Naboo. “They are _infants_ , Breha. Innocent lives caught in the horrors of war—they do not deserve a fate decided by the sins of their father.”

Breha deliberates for a long moment before speaking, her voice barely a whisper. “Padmé is gone?" 

“Yes.”

“And Anakin?”

Bail shakes his head. “Lost to darkness.”

“Will he search for his children?”

“Under Master Yoda’s guidance, I have given a drug to these children,” Bail looks sadly to the young lives in his care, “It will inhibit their connection to the Force until they reach early adolescence. It will not harm them in any way, but Vader will be unable to sense them. I have also let out a word that Padmé died in childbirth—along with her child.”

Breha closes her eyes, willing away unshed tears. “What are their names?”

“Luke and Leia,” Bail responds, his eyes brightening with a new hope, “We have always wanted to adopt a baby girl. Leia— _Padmé’s_ Leia—A beautiful child. I cannot turn my back on her.”

“What about the boy?” Breha asks.

“We thought it would be best to separate the children,” Bail frowns, “Skywalker has relatives in Tatooine, but without anyone to watch over the boy, to simply leave him on a desolate, desert planet…We also considered Naboo, but Padmé had been our strongest relation, our closest friend.”

“The people of Naboo might blame the boy,” Breha concludes, “Treat him poorly, if they knew.” 

Bail nods, gently rocking the infants as Leia begins to fidget and cry. “Without anyone willing to look after the boy, I’m afraid we have little choice but to—”

“Hush, now.” Breha’s voice is resolute, but gentle. “We will take him too, then.”

She bridges the gap between her and her husband, taking baby Luke into her arms and softly tracing the delicate cheek with the pad of her finger. Bail looks at his wife, overwhelmed by a strange mix of trepidation, happiness, and undeniable love. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Breha replies with honesty, lips pressed to a thin smile. “I am terrified of what will become of the galaxy, of Alderaan, of us. But Luke and Leia—Padmé’s children—will be loved, as our own.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me wants to make sense of the Council’s actions during RotS, part of me wishes to rewrite it completely—but hindsight 20-20, I suppose. And I’d like to think that Obi-Wan defends Anakin a lot, but Anakin is just not around to see it half the time.
> 
> Quick update because the feedback and support has been wonderful. Thank you so much for stopping by!

When Obi-Wan was made aware of this terrible truth, he had just completed a thorough inspection of General Grievous’ corpse. The burnt remains lay black and sprawling along the platform of the Confederate base, the fleshy organs ablaze between the battered metal shell. 

“Chancellor Palpatine, a Sith Lord?” he gaped at Mace Windu’s holographic image, “Are you sure?”

“It is the claim Skywalker made,” came the calm, steely reply.

Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, tensing against the twist in his stomach and the cold bite of fear in his heart. “How did Anakin find out about this?”

“Palpatine knows the ways of the Force. He has been trained to use the dark side.”

“And he simply surrendered this information to Anakin?” 

Windu crossed his arms, his cold shark stare keen and calculating. “I sensed a great deal of confusion in young Skywalker. There is much fear that clouds his judgment.”

The Master's carefully summoned words—as if meant to segue to a more affronting issue—was not lost on Obi-Wan. “You believe the Sith has tempted Anakin.” 

“I do not doubt that the Sith has tempted Anakin.” The answer was collected, untouched, and all the more infuriating. Obi-Wan’s fists clenched at his sides, his mind reeling with rage. 

“And do you believe Anakin’s allegiance has wavered?”

The elder Jedi reflected briefly, his mind long decided but his response carefully deliberated in hope of appeasing Obi-Wan. “Without temptation, no Jedi would succumb to darkness. The very fact that Anakin had been close to the Chancellor—”

“We put him there!” Obi-Wan could not contain his anger any longer, shouting at an uncharacteristic volume. “We pressured him into spying on the Chancellor, used him as bait, threw him into the den of a Sith Lord!”

“It was a decision made by the Council.” Windu’s expression remained resolutely blank. “And you agreed at the time.”

Obi-Wan laughed, incredulous. “I had casted all my doubts. I only agreed _because_ it had been the Council’s decision.”

“And you had sworn your faith in Anakin. You said he would not let you down.”

“My faith in Anakin remains the same,” Obi-Wan responded offendedly, “The assignment given to him was unfair, but he has accomplished what he was sent to do, did he not? He has revealed to you what he has found. Doubting his allegiance now would be an insult to his very being—as a Jedi, as an equal, as a friend.”

“Your faith in Anakin is very noble, Master Kenobi.” The look Windu gave him was impervious, and vaguely patronizing. “But remember, we are at war. We cannot afford to misplace faith.”

Obi-Wan pressed his eyes shut, willing his frustration to flow peacefully into the Force. “What have you done with Anakin?”

“He will play no part in the arrest of Chancellor Palpatine,” the senior Jedi replied, “He is to remain in the Council Chamber until we return. If what he revealed is true, he will have gained my trust.”

And with that, Windu’s hologram faded, leaving Obi-Wan alone, wringing his hands in hopeless indignation.

~~

The Council had long suspected some form of foul play concealed beneath the intricate politics of the Galactic Republic, which had kept the Chancellor in power long after his term had expired. At worst, they assumed a clandestine agreement between Palpatine and the Sith Lord, but to discover that Palpatine _is_ the Sith Lord, the implications for the fate of the Republic, the trajectory of the war, is unimaginable.

“For the Sith to create all of this,” Obi-Wan denounced, his knuckles white as he steered the starship through an asteroid field—a short cut, he was told. “To tear apart the galaxy—for what? Their own selfish power? This is unfathomable, absurd!”

“The way of the Sith, this is,” Yoda’s hologram responded, “A ploy to distract the Jedi, the Separatists were. All these years, been fooled, we have.”

Obi-Wan clenched his jaws, failing to elude the same composure as Master Yoda. “The Jedi are meant to be peace-keepers. Now that the Republic we had been fighting for is practically a dictatorship under a Sith Lord, what peace are we keeping now?”

“Aligned to the Chancellor, we are not. To protect freedom, our duty is. The Chancellor’s true allegiance, once we reveal, to their senses, the Senate will come.” 

Perhaps this was why Mace Windu had opted to act so quickly, to reveal Palpatine before more of the Senate could fall for his ruse. Aside from his small band of personal bodyguards on Coruscant, the Chancellor was still very much accessible to the Jedi as long as the façade held. Windu believed that surprise could be used as an advantage, but how much of a surprise could it really be, when Palpatine had knowingly divulged to Anakin his awful secret?

“Joining others on Umbara, are you not?” Forgetting that Yoda was still on the transceiver, Obi-Wan was slightly started by the Jedi Master’s inquiry. After suspecting the Chancellor’s true identity, and the likely basis of the Separatist war, the Council had reached most of the Jedi abroad, advising them to defer on their current missions and regroup with nearby allies if possible (although only the most senior of generals were told as to why). Their next course of action remained uncertain, but at least, they would find greater safety in numbers if a threat were to surface.

“My squadron is headed to Umbara, with Commander Cody in charge,” Obi-Wan replied, “However, I have decided to return to Coruscant.”

The temple was where Anakin waited, alone in the Council Chambers. Mace Windu had sensed fear in Anakin’s heart and in turn, doubted his faith. But to Obi-Wan, it was understandable that Anakin was in distress, after discovering that a close friend, a mentor, had been the Sith they were searching for all along. Anakin is loyal, honest, and strong, but no one should have to face these emotional consequences without a friend by his side. 

But it was in that moment that Order 66 commenced, and who could’ve imagined Sidious’ influence so methodical and profound, that it twisted the will of every clone on the battlefield—clones who had been allies, friends, warriors beside the Jedi for the better part of this gruesome, pointless war. Only three clones accompanied Obi-Wan on his journey back to Coruscant, one of them Wooley, who had taken a blaster for Obi-Wan during the battle on Ryloth. Ignoring the bodies scattered across the deck, as well as the revolting stench of cauterized flesh, Obi-Wan deviated from the path to Coruscant in response to a nearby distress beacon. On the lesser moon of Carratos, he would find a fallen Master with blaster wounds on his back, the body of his Padawan only meters away. Obi-Wan had summoned his inconceivable anger, sorrow, and fear—releasing them into the Force—but none of this could compare to the cacophony of despair he had felt upon arriving at the temple and realizing the hand that dealt the carnage there.

~~

The 221th Battalion had established a base on Agamar, while those deployed in the Meridian Sector were encouraged to congregate on Gala. Medical units had been dispatched to several regions in the Outer Rim, where many of the wounded have fled. Obi-Wan had also personally recalibrated the code, warning all Jedi to avoid the temples, the main targets of clone attacks. A devastating number of Jedi had lost their lives during this great purge, but the most likely survivors are those who have found allies in one of these impromptu rendezvous points.

All these vital information, Obi-Wan keeps in a tight, mental grip, although a part of him wishes he could forget, because you cannot be a traitor without the means to betray.

How many weeks— _months_ —has he spent in his cell, Obi-Wan does not know. Four times already has he awoken in a bacta tank, new skin still pink and raw, before being dragged to the same chambers by the same assaulters who took turns healing and hurting him. It’s a cruel, medieval approach, ripping him apart just to put him back together, in order to chip away at his resolve. Many men have lost their minds from this vicious cycle, no longer able to recognize that their very saviors are the exact people who had instilled the unbearable pain in the first place.

His torturers are always clones, his healers droids—impassive, detached faces to accompany clinical and efficient administrations. Not once has he caught a glimpse of Anakin— _Darth Vader_ —during his time in captivity, and Obi-Wan should consider it a blessing that he is not forced to endure harsh laughter and cruel taunts, or look into awful golden eyes on a face which he had witnessed in its transition from adolescence to adulthood, a face that he has grown to associate with love and pride. And now, certainly, it will only bring him additional pain, a living reminder of his failure as a Jedi, his failure to his late Master’s dying wish.

Perhaps Yoda was right, that the light of Anakin is no more, consumed entirely by the darkness that is Vader. And perhaps darkness did not denote hate in lieu of love—but apathy, cold indifference to a love that once simmered like a desert sun, and perhaps, simmered too much. 

Trapped in this metal cell—Force knows where, in the vastness of space—Obi-Wan does not confront Anakin or Vader, sentiment or cruelty, but the insipidness of the most basic Galactic servants, their actions like clockwork, their faces replaceable. But what difference does it make—the hand that deals the cruelty? Torture is torture, and it keeps the long days in captivity far from feeling dull. Once again, Obi-Wan finds himself consumed by useless thoughts. 

The fifth time he emerges from the bacta tank, Obi-Wan wakes to the calming warmth of the Force flowing through his battered, deprived body. This rare reassurance is short-lived however, once the medical droid clamps the Force inhibitor around his wrist, before proceeding to gently prod at random spots on his body as protocol demands. 

Occasionally, after a gruesome interrogation, his imprisoners would allow him access to the Force, in order to ensure a speedier recovery. Obi-Wan finds it almost strange—failing to recall a particularly life threatening injury—but it is conceivable that he had passed out before the worst had come. Those are the more merciful days.

A better job than usual, Obi-Wan must admit, as he inspects his body alongside the droid and finding no sores or half-healed wounds threatening to tear under the slightest of pressure. Even his scars—both new and old—appear fainter than before.

The droid even dresses him, in modest but unworn clothing, the simplicity reminiscent of traditional Jedi attire. Clones soon intrude into the medical chamber, chaining together Obi-Wan’s wrists before manhandling him out the door. They do not take the usual route to the prisons, and instead Obi-Wan finds himself traversing chambers and hallways he has never seen before, until he is no longer in a metallic dungeon, but an ornate council hall with high ceilings supported by dark marble pillars. Obi-Wan has no clue as to why today warranted such special treatment, but a small, telling part of him both dreads and awaits for Anakin. 

However, it is not Anakin who greets him on the other side of the lavish double doors, but the twisted, nightmarish figure of Lord Sidious—the self-crowned Galactic Emperor—resting on his imperial throne. 

Obi-Wan squares his shoulders and levels his chin, stares unwaveringly into sinister yellow eyes in an act of silent defiance. Gloved hands of clones clamp firmly around his forearms.

The Emperor’s mouth twists to something akin to a smirk. “General Kenobi—the revered ‘Negotiator’ who conquered with words, the first Jedi in a millennium to defeat a Sith Lord—even as a prisoner to the Galactic Empire, you have yet ceased to impress me.”

Obi-Wan’s expression remains carefully impassive, with the exception of a slight wrinkle in his brows. This is not what he had expected of their first exchange since confronting on Mustafar. Quite frankly, Obi-Wan had hoped that he would not live to suffer another ordeal. 

“A brilliant strategist and an admirable leader,” Sidious continues, “Inspiring several famous victories during the Separatist Wars. Yes, General Kenobi, I have always been fascinated by your career. Almost as fascinated—” he adds when Obi-Wan doesn’t dignify with a response. “—as I had been with Anakin Skywalker. Any military would benefit from your leadership.”

If Obi-Wan could afford a flicker of emotion, he would let his jaw drop to his feet. He hardly believes the words he hears, and he is certain—almost certain—that the Emperor is attempting to _seduce_ him—Obi-Wan Kenobi—to the dark side,and in the most tactless, ill-disguised manner imaginable. It's absurd, contemptible and utterly revolting to be misjudged so tragically, because he is after all, a Jedi Master. Was this all the Dark Lord needed to say to turn Anakin from the light—a few measured strokes to his ego, along with the false promise of a power that could cheat death? Obi-Wan clenches his bound fists, rage broiling in the depth of his soul.

“I understand your loyalty to the Jedi—” The infuriating monologue ceases to end. “—Loyalty, after all, is a very admirable trait. But the Jedi Order is no more, General Kenobi. Only fools grasp to a dead ideology.”

“I must be the last Jedi standing, then,” Obi-Wan allows himself a dry, mirthless smirk, speaking for the first time in this undesirable exchange. “But as long as one Jedi lives, the Order will live. I will not succumb to the darkness, Emperor.”

“You are powerful in the ways for the Force, and we cannot risk your insolence," Sidious exhales a disingenuous sigh of pity, "I’m afraid you simply cannot live.”

“Then, kill me.” Obi-Wan’s response was cold and a touch too immediate. What is his information worth to them, anyways?

Sidious tilts his head to an arrogant angle, analyzing the Jedi through hooded, yellow eyes. “Lord Vader will be disappointed in the choice you have made.”

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s emotionless mask wavers only briefly, and he berates himself for it, bitterly and harshly.

The Emperor’s sinister smile grows. “We speak, as per his request.”

Obi-Wan stares up at the Emperor, thunder-stricken. _Lies, lies_ —he shouts in his head—this is what the Sith do. They twist certain truths to convenient, believable, _awful_ lies, and Obi-Wan is sensible enough to see through the façade, but it does little to prevent the distress flickering in his eyes. Did Sidious really think he was so _desperate_ —desperate for Anakin?

“‘As wise as Master Yoda, and as powerful as Master Windu.’ What high praise that had been. Anakin has always spoken fondly of you—as your Padawan learner, as a knight in the Jedi Order.”

Obi-Wan remembers those words—clearly and painfully—spoken when Anakin had still been a bright-eyed young Padawan, lanky and awkward from a recent growth spurt. They had just returned from their latest mission, and Anakin, restless and elated from their resounding victory, bragged of Obi-Wan’s merit to every Padawan he could find. A stern lecture on humility had ensued, although the Master could not ignore the swell of warmth carefully suppressed in his chest.

And to learn that this memory is now shared with Lord Sidious, the ache in his heart seems to double. Obi-Wan reels in his helpless misery, loathing at his own ineptitude, weakness, and shame, and that he is at the mercy of the very evil which consumed everything he had lived for, which took Anakin away. 

“Of course, now that Lord Vader is liberated to the dark, his sentiment is not exactly transferable.” Sidious’ taunt is thinly veiled, at best. “We do not always agree—Lord Vader and I—but he appears convinced, against my better judgment, that you are salvageable, simply misguided in the way of the light.”

 _Lord Vader_. Obi-Wan inhales and lets his thoughts simmer gently—the task undoubtedly more challenging without the calming reassurance of the Force, but manageable still from decades of mediation and self-discipline. Lord Vader is not Anakin, and Obi-Wan supposes he should be grateful that Sidious chose to use this alias to highlight the undeniable estrangement. Anakin is dead, lost the moment he allowed darkness to ghost into his heart. Even that is a comforting thought compared to reality.

“This was Anakin’s wish?” Obi-Wan speaks carefully, keeping his emotions tight and compact, as he gently tests the temptation, the obscene imbalance of power between him and Sidious at the moment. 

“He is wary of you, General Kenobi, but admires you still, for your wisdom and bravery.”

Obi-Wan deliberates for a long moment, before responding, “If you allow me the chance to speak with him, I will tell you what you wish to know.”

The Emperor’s mouth twists to an awful grin, the ashen skin of his face stretching in uneven folds. “Lord Vader would be relieved, that you are willing to see our way.”

Rebels—Obi-Wan learns—has organized in the outskirts of the Outer Rim, composed of the remaining Jedi, past allies, fighters of freedom, and other misfits hunted by the oppressive galactic regime. Relief washes over Obi-Wan, while a much needed glimmer of hope revitalizes his tattered, hollow heart. How many friends and allies have survived? He does not know—there is no way to know—but the Jedi genocide has failed its primary objective. There will be opposition to this great and terrible Empire. There exists a chance that balance will be restored.

“The seventh moon of Xagobah, in the caves beneath the fog, is where I had planned to send my battalion to join the others in that sector. I am almost certain a base is established there, one of the largest considering the density of Jedi deployed in the first place.”

Obi-Wan lies, with a confidence and excitement that he can hardly suppress. Xagobah’s moon is a magnificent deathtrap construed by nature alone, that he had the misfortune of stumbling upon as a Padawan with Qui-Gon. Odorless poison lace the thick fog within the tortuous caverns, and the strong magnetic pull of Xagobah makes navigation and communication nearly impossible. And better yet, the native fauna of the moon are adept hunters, fiercely vicious and undetectable without the guidance of the Force.

Later that evening, Obi-Wan returns to his cell, without clones to chain him to the walls and abuse him mercilessly. The Jedi Master relaxes on his cot, legs crossed and arms folded behind his head, musing with defiant, guarded glee at the damage—albeit, miniscule in the grand scheme—he has caused to the Empire all the while confined to the prisons.

Vader does not visit him as promised, but Obi-Wan had anticipated such, saw through Sidious’ manipulations the moment they were fabricated. Seeing Vader will not bring him any joy—the splitting image of the boy he had raised, the friend he had loved, possessed by the consuming darkness of rage, fear, cruelty, and greed. Into the oblivion, has Anakin’s goodness been jettisoned, and Obi-Wan cares not for the flesh shell that remains.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: dead younglings, torture, more Obi-Wan hurt
> 
> I swear this story has a happy(ish) Obikin ending, I swear! Thank you so much for everyone who has taken their time to read, leave comments, kudos, etc. You guys are fantastic! <3

Days have passed without any word or any contact with the outside other than the service droid that stopped by twice a day to deliver insipid meals that barely kept him alive. Obi-Wan spends the long quiet hours cross-legged on his cot, eyes closed and subduing his emotions as best as he can—his anger, dread, and guilt all but a faint murmur in his soul—and only then does he finally allow himself to _think_. What good is he to the resistance hidden and imprisoned as he is now? Survivors must have assumed him dead, along with the thousands of allies terminated by Order 66. Thus, rescue is undoubtedly out of the question, unknown his status is.

Worse yet, Obi-Wan holds valuable information detrimental to the rebels’ efforts. And the longer he stays alive in this Sith-forsaken hell, the greater the likelihood the information will be extracted from him. He rattles his mind for a weakness in the enemy’s security, a possibility to either escape or die trying. But his grasps at a plan have been feeble at best, devoid of access to a weapon or the Force, or any information regarding the location or layout of this metallic prison. Useless musings deserve no action undertaken, and Obi-Wan will not allow his capturers the satisfaction of witnessing pitiful attempts or unnecessary manifestations of a desperation so carefully hidden behind his calm façade. 

Quiet, patient, and compliant—this is how the clones find him when they finally arrive. Obi-Wan pulls on his robe without further urging, surrendering his wrists to metal shackles before being escorted out. 

They jostle him across the halls and into a nearby elevator, but this time, instead of up, they descend. More cells beneath them, Obi-Wan soon realizes—large, filthy confinements for masses of prisoners and beasts alike. Foul, hideous creatures rattle against the bars that separate them and their captors, howling in feral rage and spilling saliva at passing feet. At the end of this dreadful circus stands the hooded figure of Lord Sidious, surrounded by his personal guards of the Empire. They loom ominously over the last cell hidden in a shadowy corner of the prison.

It takes a moment for Obi-Wan to adjust his eyes to the dark, but all of his senses dull upon recognizing the small prisoners behind the scrutinized cell.

Horror chokes his throat. 

“Master Kenobi!” The cry echoes in his ringing ears, before a clone roughly shoves the young prisoner, silencing him.

Younglings and Padawans—seven or eight of them—cower between armed clone troopers. They look ruffled, frightened, but physically unharmed since their capture, and for the first time in a long time, words evade Obi-Wan.

“Your insolence tries my patience, General Kenobi,” Sidious speaks without turning to the Jedi. “And this will be your punishment for your deceit.”

“No—” Obi-Wan whips around to face the Emperor. “Leave them be—they’re only children!”

“For each day you refuse to comply to our requests,” the Dark Lord continues, “One prisoner will be executed.”

Obi-Wan looks desperately at the small bodies behind bars—the helpless eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, the young faces petrified beyond belief. His gut roils violently, gripped with revulsion and panic. 

“You can’t! It is meaningless to kill them in cold blood—” He is grasping at straws, anxious to buy time so he can think— _reason_ his way out of this horrifying mess. “—They are young, susceptible to influence. You can train them in the way of the dark.”

The Emperor’s cruel, yellow eyes finally meet his, expression impassive beneath his wrinkled, gray flesh. “Is it not you, General Kenobi, who would prefer death over joining the dark side? It would be hypocritical to encourage differently for these children.”

“But this is preposterous!” Obi-Wan struggles to dislodge the firm hands holding him back. “Please—You need not to harm these children to achieve your objective—”

“Then, do you comply to our requests, General Kenobi?” The Emperor interrupts, “Know that treachery will not be tolerated lightly.”

Obi-Wan grits his teeth, glaring defiantly at the Sith Lord despite the deafening pounding of his too quick heart. He keeps stubbornly to his silence, realizing that his knowledge must be valuable for the Emperor to personally undertake such measures during a time of rebellion and war. In the most perverse of ways, it gives the Jedi hope, and to betray the efforts of countless allies—the only chance to overthrow this evil Empire—it is not a risk Obi-Wan is willing to take.

 _The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few_ , he desperately recites in his mind, _even the needs of a few children_. He wishes nothing more than to find some consolation in this mantra, but there is none that can spare him from the horror that is about to unfold.

“Very well,” Sidious presses his wilting mouth to a flat, grim line, “Proceed.”

The clones organize within the cell upon command, one of them raising his weapon as the rest immobilize the young prisoners—some struggling and shouting, while others are scared stiff, resigning to their fate.

“No, Master Kenobi! Help us!” 

Obi-Wan blinks away, unable to bear the frantic pleas of innocent children, whom he has failed in his futility, whom the galaxy has failed. He mourns for them in unsaid prayers, but his grief is short-lived as the Emperor’s cold, cruel rasp tears him from his stupor, demanding the impossible once more.

“Choose the young one to be sacrificed.” 

“What?” A cold ring of fear closes around his heart, each intake of breath suddenly suffocating. “You can’t possibly expect me to—” Obi-Wan swallows thickly, appalled. “This is not a decision I can make.”

“Then I will feed them all to the beasts!” The Dark Lord bellows—features contorting viciously in rage—and it takes all of Obi-Wan’s dignity not to recoil from the outburst, his feet firmly planted despite the weakness in his knees.

“No! For Force’s sake!” The Jedi shouts back, knowing and cursing at his hopelessness, his lack of jurisdiction over not only his life but also the lives he has sworn to protect. “You will lose all leverage over me if you kill them. I will not comply to your demands, and I will take my knowledge to my death.”

And it pains him—profoundly and horribly—to negotiate with the lives of children when they stand in this very room, watching him with tired, frightened, betrayed eyes. Sidious has the audacity to smirk, obviously finding sick pleasure in the pain he has caused.

“Look at how your Jedi Master bargains with your lives!” The Emperor turns to the young prisoners, cruel laughter in his voice. “He does not care for you. He would rather leave you to your death than to reveal the secrets he keeps under the pretense of nobility. This man—your _revered_ Master Kenobi—is a fraud and a coward! Your lives are worth nothing to him!”

“No!” Obi-Wan protests, speechless and paralyzed before the young faces scrutinizing every flicker of his emotion, every word he breathes, “None of this is true! I-I am sorry that the universe is unjust. You are innocent, and you do not deserve any of this horror. I would lay down my life a thousand times than to— _Force_ , forgive me—I am so sorry!”

“Master Kenobi,” a voice beckons, soft but calm with quiet defiance, “Choose me, Master.”

The voice belongs to a Padawan—a young girl with sandy blonde hair and sky blue eyes that curiously reminds him of a clear midday on Tatooine. Obi-Wan grits his teeth savagely, willing himself away from falling into that dark spiral. 

“I watched my Master die in the temple,” the Padawan continues—her eyes solemn, fatigued, and unfitting for such a delicate, young face, “But their Masters were away on missions. They will come back for them.”

Obi-Wan stares at this naive, brave soul, his mouth silently agape as he searches for his words. He does not feel pride in the girl’s defiance, nor hope in her selfless sacrifice. Instead, shame—inexplicable, overwhelming, _wretched_ shame—washes over him in pendulous waves, as the girl stands to bear the punishment of her Master, and her Master’s Master—the profound failure of the Jedi Council to allow such injustice to exist.

“My Master is gone,” the girl resumes, “There will be one less person to mourn for me. Be brave children, for this is a fight against a much greater evil that threatens not only our lives, but every life in the galaxy. I trust Master Kenobi. We must not give up hope.”

Young warriors willing to die for the Order, for democracy, and for peace—this Padawan could not have spoken better than what the Council had desired. Even Obi-Wan at her age would have done the same, laying down his life effortlessly for his Masters, for the binding power that has brought him love, community, and a purpose in life. For decades, Obi-Wan has accepted this notion without fear or doubt, and only now does he begin to wonder how ingrained their faults must be.

The girl’s death was swift, a single blaster to the heart. If she were made to suffer in any way, surely Obi-Wan would have rebelled—chains and force inhibiter be damned. He watches with seething rage as a soldier carries away her body, her limp form—like that of a sleeping child—cradled between strong arms .

Sidous strides past Obi-Wan, a firm scowl on his face. “Be prepared to make the same decision tomorrow,” comes the parting words, and then, the Dark Lord is gone.

The clones return him to his cell, prodding him along to meet their stride. Only in the privacy of his confinement does Obi-Wan allow his bitter tears to fall. Meditation no longer brought him peace, as the memory of the young Padawan—too painful, too fresh—haunts every conscious thought. A meaningless death, a casualty of war, and there is no justice, no comfort to be found in the loss of an innocent life. Obi-Wan searches his mind, wishing he could remember the girl’s name, but no such redemption can be spared as he comes to accept another regret he must carry for what is remaining of his life.

~~

Superficially, Darth Vader appears identical to Anakin Skywalker, and Bail Organa cannot detach himself from his grim fascination as the young Sith Lord paces about his office, his black cape rippling with each regal stride. Even as a Jedi Knight, Skywalker preferred darker attire, but now as a Sith, there is no one to deter him from wearing all black, with the exception of a few ornamental bronzes here and there.

“The Emperor congratulates you,” Vader is the first to speak, “On you and Queen Breha’s adoption of a baby boy and girl.”

“After many years of trying, my wife and I are very happy with our decision.” Decades of service in politics require nothing short of legendary control over one’s emotions, a control perhaps even besting that of a Jedi—or at least, Bail can hope. “Pass along my gratitude to the Emperor. It is very kind that he keeps my family in his thoughts.”

Vader smiles, tight-lipped and unreadable. He finally takes a seat in the lavish chair before the Senator’s work desk. The situation is unnerving—only worsened by the casual mentioning of Bail’s family, and unbeknownst to Vader, his family as well. Bail can only find solace in Master Yoda’s promise that the force inhibitors are sufficient to hide the truth. Vader is here for diplomatic reasons only, but even the purpose of that is lost on the Senator entirely.

“Senator Organa,” the Sith starts anew, “I come to you today with the intention of discussing the autonomy of Alderaan.”

Bail’s frown is almost imperceptible. “I did not realize the autonomy of Alderaan is an issue in question.”

“Since the establishment of the Empire, it seems that there are factions of resistance spread across the outskirts of the capital.” Vader watches him calculatingly, like a specimen under observation. “Where does the loyalty of Alderaan lie?”

“I am confident that Alderaan will remain part of the Empire,” the Senator stands firmly. “We recognize the Emperor as our leader.”

“And yours?”

“My loyalty?” The question catches Bail off guard, the bluntness of it. “The people, of course—” and then, he quickly amends “—what I believe is the best for my people. I have always expressed my support for the Empire, ever since Chancellor Palpatine declared himself its leader.”

Vader’s smile widens, showing his teeth. It’s a disturbing display, as if they were caught in a cruel game of cat chasing mouse. And not often does Bail Organa find himself the mouse in any situation. “I find it ceaselessly amusing, the lies that politicians weave. So shameless you are in your deceit.”

Panic flickers in Bails heart, despite the resolute calmness that he strives to display. He allows himself a quirk of his brow, a calculated show of surprise. “This is quite confounding, I must admit. Never have I doubted the intent of the Galactic Empire to bring justice and peace.”

“I’m afraid, Senator, you have too often implicated yourself in the business of the Jedi,” Vader watches him through half-hooded eyes, “We have little tolerance for Jedi sympathizers.” 

“You must be mistaken, my Lord,” Bail remains adamant, “This is—”

“Silence!” Vader shouts, temper rising like a summer storm, “We know of your arrival on Coruscant, immediately before Yoda’s escape! And your participation on Mustafar, resulting in the death of Padmé Amidala!”

“I—I—” Bail fumbles with his words, paralyzed with shock and terror. “Senator Amidala had been gravely ill. I simply brought her to the nearest medical unit and—”

“My wife died under your care.” Vader rises from his seat, dark and menacing with barely contained rage. His words promised pain. “My child also. For your treason, you will suffer as I have suffered. You will experience the same loss as I have endured.”

Vader grasps his lightsaber in a flash of blinding red. Bail stumbles backwards, knocking over his chair as he reaches the hidden switch beneath his desk. An energy barrier blocks Vader’s attack just in time, and Bail watches Vader regain his footing on the other side, seething with unadulterated hatred as specks of gold and red color his naturally blue eyes.

This stalemate lasts only briefly before guards are rushing into the office, firing their blasters in all directions. An aircraft soon descends to the window behind the desk, as more soldiers emerge, crashing through the thick sheets of glass, and pulling the Senator to safety. 

“Take me to Breha,” Bail demands of his pilot once he is secured in his seat. “Call for as many reinforcements as we can spare. I’m am terribly afraid that the Queen is in danger.”

The royal palace had been ravaged upon their arrival, the dead and injured lay scattered in the quarters—soldiers and servants alike. Bail and his bodyguards charge through the halls, eliminating what Imperial clones had remained, until they reached the personal chambers of the Queen, the luscious carpet and fine mahogany doors charred black with blaster burns. With icy fear in his veins, Bail pushes past the entrance to find a fallen maiden by the crib, dressed in dark gold and imperial green.

Not Breha, Bail breathes a sigh of relief, but his heart aches for young Celessa, the Queen’s trusted decoy and protection. He kneels beside the young woman, turning her so that she lies on her back. He feels for a pulse and finds none beneath smooth, tanned skin, clinging to remnants of warmth. Bail whispers a quick prayer before closing her eyes, vowing that her sacrifice will be honored, her bravery remembered.

“Senator Organa, we do not have much time.” A solider soon approaches him, urging him to stand. “You must leave to join the Queen. Alderaan is no longer safe.”

“Very well,” Bail says, eyeing the empty crib one last time before following his guards to the exit. And with heaviness in his heart, the Senator flees from his palace, his home, his Alderaan, surrendering his beautiful planet to the whims of dark, unforeseeable forces.

~~

Alderaan is the first planet to fall under the siege of the Galactic Empire. Relentlessly pursued by Darth Vader and his imperial fleet, the royal family flees from planet to planet, finding temporary solace in the foggy mountains of Moor and disguising themselves as peasants in caverns and huts.

Leia’s crying wakes Bail up, but not before his wife has already left his side, urging the infant to shush with gentle whispers and rocking. Bail winces at the faint glow behind closed curtains, dawn breaking only moments ago. They have survived another day to witness sunrise, and if they are lucky, the ship would be repaired before the sun sets, to carry them far away from this cold, desolate planet.

“Vader chases us as if we had stolen his family,” Breha comments humorlessly, as Bail approaches her from behind, kissing her sleep tangled hair. 

“In a way, he believes just that—not Luke and Leia as his own children, but the death of Padmé. He deems it my error in judgment, my responsibility.”

“How is it your responsibility?” Anger simmers behind Breha’s cool façade. “When he was the one who abandoned her on Mustafar, pregnant as she had been? When he was the one who succumbed to inexcusable evil and destroyed all the love and trust they had built?”

“Underneath his anger, his strength, Vader is but a young man,” Bail sighs, remembering the stories of the newly appointed Jedi general who charged bravely into the trenches of the Clone Wars, so very _desperate_ for glory, for approval in the eyes of his superiors. “A young man with childish fears and insecurities.”

“He is not a child, and he acts out of unfounded hatred for us, not love for his family,” Breha venomously articulates, “Do not defend his actions.”

“I am not defending him,” Bail replies calmly, “I am perhaps trying to understand his plainly unorthodox way of handling loss.”

“By absolving himself of all responsibility and blaming others for his mistakes,” Breha interjects with such undisguised disdain, that Bail can’t help but laugh.

“I doubt he feels no responsibility,” he smiles, detaching from his wife when Luke emerges from his slumber, stretching his little hands in hopes of being held. “But it is difficult to reason with the unreasonable.”

Before the sun could reach its peak in the sky, the Imperial fleet descends on the small planet of Moor. Their escape is narrow, and the casualties severe, the royal family losing almost all of their guards to the merciless rampage of Imperial clones. 

For the first time in their five years of marriage, Bail sees his wife weep out of fear, clutching her children tightly to her chest as they rise into the dark, starry atmosphere. Their final destination will be the Outer Rim, to a clandestine meeting on the third moon of Spara. There, they will meet with rebel alliances in hopes of exchanging knowledge for protection. 

Their escape had been lucky—almost scandalously so—and this fortune does not escape Bail Organa as he cautiously notes in the back of his mind, the absence of Darth Vader in this latest plan of attack.

~~

Two more days have passed, two more innocent children heartlessly murdered in a vile abuse of power. The clones have returned Obi-Wan to the torture chambers, chaining his wrists to the walls before beating him cruelly with shock batons. Their strikes are relentless and in a frustratingly predictable pattern that forces Obi-Wan to count each jolt like the passing of time, until he is allowed a brief reprise on the tenth, where one of the clones would ask:

“Are you prepared to surrender your knowledge?”

And when Obi-Wan fails to dignify with a response, as per usual, the cycle would repeat, and the Jedi Master can feel his resolve slowly crumbling, his soul slipping away. 

He forces himself silent and endures the pain as a punishment, allowing his thoughts to flicker between fragmented memories of dead children, fallen friends, Qui-Gon’s patient words, and Anakin’s unwavering loyalty, love, pride—all banished to the darkness within Vader’s heart, a darkness that evaded even Obi-Wan. The ache is so consuming, so profound, that it is almost enough to distract him from the physical pain of every nerve firing, or the nauseating smell of his own burnt flesh filling his lungs.

Already on the brink of life and death, Obi-Wan needs only one slip to teeter him into the calm embrace of the Force. Clones are human after all—prone to human error and mistakes—so maybe the next strike will be a touch too heavy, the electric baton pressed a moment too long beside his already stuttering heart.

But death does not greet him that day, and instead, the rhythm of the beating stops without warning, so suddenly that Obi-Wan almost misses the sickening crack of skulls against metal that reverberates along the walls of his cell. 

Two clones lay lifelessly at his feet, streaks of blood running down the wall behind them, blood that no longer belonged to just Obi-Wan.

The Jedi feels gloved fingers threading through his hair, the grip harsh and painful as this new presence forces Obi-Wan to look up.

Obi-Wan sees Anakin through blood-soaked curls. Anakin’s eyes are steely, cold, but blue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone who has read/shared their excitement for the story! I feel that the most gruesome parts are over, but Obi-Wan hurt will still be a recurring theme in every chapter.
> 
> And I will strive for weekly updates!
> 
> Chapter warnings: Non-graphic use of syringes?? Boys who know how to hurt each other

Anakin Skywalker. There is something undeniably romantic in the name, like an intimate tango of soft and hard syllables, gentle caresses on your tongue followed by rawness and strength in the back of your throat. Anakin Skywalker. The name promises hope. The dream of freedom and infinite skies for a young boy born into slavery, born fatherless, born with a profound connection to the simmering life force of every creature in the universe.

Anakin Skywalker, the noble hero, the Chosen One at the age of nine, a Jedi prodigy at twenty-two, a warrior wielding unforeseeable power trapped within the fragile ego of a boy—a boy who must bear the weight of a thousand-year-old philosophy, to be the savior of a galaxy that cannot be saved.

His tragic flaw—if love can be a flaw—is that he perhaps loved too boldly, loved without restraint, his heart enthralled by the young queen of Naboo—gentle, kind, honest, strong—deserving of affection, of love. But love, while undeniably human, is a vice forbidden in the Jedi way.

The impossible situation, a premonition of death, can sink the sweetest allure of love to the crippling fear of loss. And with a simple promise of power, a cruel lie to cheat death, darkness twists into a heart once pure and true, and the monster that is Vader rises as Skywalker tumbles from grace.

Feared, scarred, friendless, and alone, Anakin Skywalker will live on to tread the galaxy he has ravaged in his madness, with only the ghosts of the people he once loved.

The fall of Anakin Skywalker, what a great and terrible tragedy. Some day bards will sing of it.

~~

The first time Obi-Wan wakes up, he feels disorientated—his heart pounding like racehorse hooves from a nightmare he can’t quite remember. He motions to sit and regrets his decision immediately when the room around him spins, his stomach twisting and clenching violently at the unsettling sensation, threatening to spill into indiscernible swirl of beiges and white.

He is in a bed—he realizes numbly—the sheets and comforter covering him plush and soft, but tucked so tightly into the mattress that they feel like restraints.

“Oh—” the Jedi manages a single syllable as he reaches sightlessly to the space beside him, ill balanced and tumbling in his second attempt to rise. He aches, inside and out, newly closed flesh straining beneath bacta patches while an insurmountable pressure pounds against his fragile skull. The machine he is attached to beeps vehemently in protest, as his clumsy movements dislodge various tubes from his arm, chest, and mouth.

“ _Sith-hell_ —” he clutches at his head, grumbling in a fruitless appeal for silence.

And in the blur that is his vision, Obi-Wan sees a flash of deep red, before hearing beeps and whistles strung together hastily against the chaotic backdrop. It is binary, in a tone too familiar, reminding him of R2 but not quite. Obi-Wan winces at the incessant noise, wondering why an astromech droid would present by his bedside, before the sharp point of a cool needle pierces through the skin of his arm, and suddenly, everything falls quiet, black, and still.

~~

The second time Obi-Wan wakes up, he manages to quell his panic quickly, smothering his emotions and remaining resolutely calm as he watch the rise and fall of his chest before him. The room is now dark, and Obi-Wan can only catch the shadows of the furniture—a nightstand, a bookcase, two chairs, an armoire—adorning the sizeable oval-shaped apartment. The bed, large enough to fit three and far too luxurious for a modest Jedi’s standards, rest along the flat portion of the corner-less walls with two tall windows on either side covered by long curtains that glow ethereally from what Obi-Wan can only assume is moonlight.

He pushes himself to sit, no longer experiencing the same debilitating vertigo. Even the aches and phantom pains of the past few gruesome months appear to have faded, as he inspects himself for lingering injuries and finding none, wondering how much time must have passed for his body to be mended so thoroughly again.

The feeling of nothingness in the most intimate part of his mind—along with the tight press of a metal band around his wrist—reminds Obi-Wan that he is still a hostage despite the lush accommodations of his new prison. The Jedi pinches together his eyes and delves into the abyss that is his disjointed memories, trying to recall the last sensations and faces, words or thoughts, before waking up to this enigmatic setting.

 _Anakin_.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter open, his gut twisting as the image of a cold sneer and steel blue eyes burns into his mind— _Anakin standing over him, shrouded in black, Anakin with a hand in his hair, pulling_ —

The door to his quarters opens then, flooding the oval room with artificial light. Obi-Wan winces at the silhouette—not humanoid, but short, cylindrical—an astromech droid, possibly the one from before.

The lights along the walls of his room switches on—dim and almost candle-like in their orange tint. The droid waits patiently by the entrance, its tiny round sensor blinking blue atop a red and silver dome. The Jedi squeezes his eyes shut before slowly opening them, wondering if this is simply a trick of his mind—delirious and mad from drug induced sleep.

“R4?” he finally asks.

The droid emits a lively string of whistles, skidding within reach of the Jedi Master. Obi-Wan places a tentative hand on the dome, inspecting the smooth paint and fine finish. Surely, this is a different R4 unit, made to resemble his previous droid R4-P17, who was assigned to him for the better part of the Clone Wars before being irreparably destroyed. It was the battle of Coruscant when Obi-Wan had last employed R4, and the Jedi feels as if he had lived an entire lifetime since then.

Endless questions swarm his mind, begging for answers that he knows will not be found by listening to senseless bleeps, or keeping to his inertness in this room. Obi-Wan studies the R4 unit carefully, wondering what purpose an astromech droid might serve in this situation, ill versed in battle and interrogation as they are. Obi-Wan can outmaneuver the thing, if he must.

Straightening in the bed, the Jedi does not realize that he is undressed until he sees clothes folded neatly at a distant edge. He reaches for them, finding trousers and a tunic, softer and finer than the usual Jedi garments, but reminiscent in their modest hues and simplicity.

The droid offers no protest as Obi-Wan slips from the bed to dress himself. The door to the chambers has been left open, and Obi-Wan pretends not to have noticed, stretching experimentally as he stirs his stiff, bedridden body to wakefulness. He weighs on the likelihood of a trap being sprung, before deeming the notion of a trap absurd—captured and helpless as he is, without even the power to save innocent children slaughtered before his eyes.

 _The children_.

Obi-Wan swallows thickly, panic in his chest prickling once more. Four children had remained before he had succumbed to the interrogation, and surely, the Emperor would have spared their lives until the Jedi’s consciousness returned. What purpose would murdering younglings serve to the Sith now, without Obi-Wan as their unwilling audience?

The Jedi turns to the droid, who is still humming in its simple, little language. Obi-Wan can conjure no reasonable explanation for this turn of events, although he has a feeling—a vague sense of unease—that Sidious may not be pulling all the strings this time.

At least with the Dark Lord, the days had been predictable.

“Take me to your master,” Obi-Wan says, cutting the R4 unit in mid-whistle. The droid falls silent—almost in hesitation—it’s dome turning precariously to the open entrance.

Obi-Wan has never been proficient in deciphering what minimal emotions droids are programmed to display—at least not compared to his skillful dissection of sentient beings—but the brief pause and tentative movement is enough to convince the Jedi that the R4 unit has made a mistake, and that perhaps, leaving this room should never have been an option.

Obi-Wan leaps onto the bed, vaulting over the droid and towards the exit. He hears a distressed series of bleeps as he turns into the corridor, suggesting his judgment likely correct.

The Jedi dashes down the arching halls, his bare feet pattering against cool, dark marble. Whatever haphazard planning he had managed to conjure proves meaningless in the end, as he encounters neither soldiers to pilfer a weapon nor servants to coerce information. Only closed doors greet him at every turn, compartment after compartment behind lavish double entrances that he has no means of accessing.

“Useless—all of it!” he curses under his breath, panic and frustration stirring in his chest at the thought of being caught amid such a pathetic attempt at escape. He shoves thoughtlessly at the last door he finds, before unexpectedly falling through to the other side.

The Jedi lands unceremoniously in a heap, chin pressed to the stone pavement beneath. A gentle breeze brushes through his hair like cool fingertips, while the fresh scent of pinegrass and everlilies mingles in the brisk night air. Crickets sing their evening songs to the hushed ripples of water from a small, nearby creek. Obi-Wan feels his deprived senses ignite, overloading with the scents and sounds and sensations of finally being outside.

He scrambles to his feet, looking around frantically to discover a walled garden filled with flagrant herbs and thick, flowering trees on the cusp of bearing fruit. Lightning bugs dance in the evening shadows, pretending to be the night’s missing stars.

Because there are no stars when Obi-Wan glances upwards—their gentle, celestial glimmer veiled behind a great, glowing spider-web sprawling across the sky, enveloping the palace, the city, and perhaps, even the planet in a barrier of incredible proportions.

Obi-Wan swallows the dread in his throat. If the thought of escape had been fanciful prior, now it appears virtually impossible.

A sudden ripple in the Force, too sharp for even the inhibitor to mask, seizes Obi-Wan’s attention to the other side of the garden. A balcony elevates above the lush foliage, and behind cast iron railings stands Anakin in his imperial uniform, his brows furrowed and lips pressed to a thin frown—appearing surprised, and perhaps, vaguely annoyed.

Beside him is a lady companion draped in blue and gold, her dark hair braided in an intricate bun. She rises from the iron bench, following Anakin’s line of sight until she is frowning perplexedly at Obi-Wan too.

Obi-Wan feels a familiar sharp prick in the skin just below his elbow and turns to see the R4 unit from before, a syringe connected to its metal appendage. The Jedi Master chances another glance at his former Padawan, before the ground comes crashing towards him.

~~

The third time Obi-Wan wakes up, his feels hazy and delirious—trapped between the plush sheets of the too-large bed once more. The voice around him echoes like underwater murmurs, reverberating indefinitely in the space between his eardrums and alarmingly unresponsive brain. It takes a considerable moment before Obi-Wan regains awareness of his current state of being, and by then, Anakin is already in the midst of engaging conversation.

“—would be asleep for another week at least, so I suppose it was ill preparation on my part. I can imagine the experience quiet unsettling.”

Anakin is occupying the closer chair by Obi-Wan’s bed, his hands folded neatly before him, his ankle crossed over one knee. There is a touch of stiffness in his muted tone, a vague sense of almost concern.

“And despite all your insistence on patience,” the Sith continues, “You were never one to fester in your own uncertainty. I am not surprised by how terrible a patient you are.”

“You mean prisoner,” Obi-Wan corrects with a bitter twist of his mouth.

Anakin smiles faintly, inscrutable. “Yes, I suppose that too.”

Obi-Wan pushes himself to sit, sighing as he rubs away the lingering sleep from his eyes. Finally seeing Anakin face to face—rage, hurt, and inconceivable sadness are all understatements to the vicious emotions assaulting his unshielded heart. In the end, the former master can only manage bone deep tiredness, too broken to respond properly to this immeasurable betrayal. No answer from the boy he had lost can be gratifying at this point, as he wishes nonsensically for a collapsed star to swallow them all.

The red-domed R4 unit skids beside Anakin’s chair, emitting an indignant series of bleeps. The Sith lofts a brow, volunteering the translation.

“It appears that R4 is concerned for your mental health. Do you not remember? R4 belonged to you.”

“Belonged to me?” Obi-Wan repeats, caught out.

Anakin raises a gloved hand to the droid, explaining with a strange, misplaced nostalgia. “They had retrieved your starfighter after the battle of Coruscant. R4 was damaged practically beyond repair, but I kept him from being sent with the other recyclable scraps. At the moment, I mused with the prospect of fixing this droid, but I never quite found the time.”

“And now, as a Sith apprentice,” Obi-Wan responds dryly, “You have all your time to squander on broken machines.”

“Of course,” Anakin flashes another smile, outwardly innocent and good-natured, if it weren’t for the sharpness in his voice and the harsh glint in his eyes. “The war is over, is it not? Sure, there are loose ends to be tidied up—which I am sure you are aware of—but peace, unity has been restored.”

Obi-Wan turns away and tries not to wince at the mockery of it all.

“I have modified R4,” Anakin continues when the Jedi fails to dignify with a response, “But I left his memory intact. I am his master now, but he still remembers you, your partnership during the Clone Wars. I just thought—” A brief hesitation. “—that perhaps, familiarity can bring some sense of ease, but unfortunately, the remnants of the past are few and far in between.”

“Yes, of course,” Obi-Wan stares at Anakin incredulously, unsure of whether he should laugh or cry. “Because you have murdered all our friends. What a startling observation you have made.”

Anger flashes in Anakin’s eyes in response to the ridicule, before quickly dissipating through sheer force of will. Perhaps, mocking the newly turned Sith is not the wisest of moves, but Obi-Wan can hardly bring himself to care at the moment—not when Anakin is sitting before him, feigning logic and sanity and presenting Obi-Wan’s old R4 unit like a consolation for tearing the world apart.

“They were no friends of mine.” Anakin’s voice is soft, but biting. “And neither were they friends to you. You were blind to it all, as I had been.”

“Fitting that you accuse me of blindness,” the Jedi retorts, “When you are the one who succumbed to the dark.”

“There are answers in the dark. You were too afraid to look.”

Obi-Wan seethes with barely contained rage, the comfort of the Force nowhere to be found and leaving him with only raw, unguarded emotions broiling inside. “And what answers have you found, that prompted you to betray the vows you have followed all your life, to murder in cold blood when you have sworn to protect?”

“The Jedi were liars, Obi-Wan,” the young Sith calmly explains, “They were hypocrites who conquered while preaching peace, who denounced despotism while craving absolute power. Perhaps, the intentions of some were noble—” He looks at Obi-Wan, a touch of sympathy almost reaching his eyes. “—but the system, as a whole, has betrayed their own beliefs.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, lips curved in a bitter, depreciating smile. “Do you not realize that you have imperiled the galaxy to a proven evil, while purging its guardians based on groundless misgivings?”

“If the Jedi were truly guardians, then they failed in their mission of peace.”

“Failed because you betrayed us.”

“I was able to destroy the Jedi,” Anakin corrects, a dark shroud clouding his handsome features, “Because they were destined to fail.”

Obi-Wan bites back a scathing remark, knowing there is no battle to be won here. It is a frustrating, circular, _nonsensical_ argument, and he wishes to partake in none of it.

“Where am I?” he eventually asks, when Anakin shows no indication of leaving, when the silence between them hangs heavily for a long, unnerving minute.

“Your new home,” the young Sith responds in a surprisingly easy manner—no irony or malice in his passive voice.

“Why?”

“Because it is my wish,” he says, before adding under the Jedi’s scrutinizing gaze. “And I do not owe you an explanation.”

“I think there are plenty you ought to explain,” Obi-Wan remarks, to which Anakin frowns, a wrinkle of annoyance etched between his brows.

“I did not come here to argue with you, nor did I hope to change your mind—as stubborn as you are.”

“Then, please, enlighten me,” the Jedi snaps peevishly, “Why are you here?”

“To offer a few, simple suggestions.” The Sith gestures vaguely with a gloved hand. “So that your stay may be as comfortable as possible. This room is yours, and I will grant you access to the mediation room, the library, and even the gardens. Know that R4 will be in your company at all times, and he is equipped with several means to restrain you—some more humane than others—if you are to stray.”

“And if I wish to leave,” Obi-Wan challenges against his better judgment, and the smile Anakin returns is unfriendly, a fitting foreshadowing for the taunt that follows.

“Why would you wish to leave? The Order does not exist anymore. Where would you possibly go?”

The rebel factions, Obi-Wan thinks dourly, along with the other remaining Jedi, brave souls keeping alive the only hope in destroying this monstrous empire—which of course, is hardly the appropriate response for a question with no intended answer. Obi-Wan bites his tongue.

“You are safe here,” Anakin says, then adding almost as an afterthought, “Do not betray my generosity.”

“Safe?” The Jedi laughs in disbelief. “From whom? Your new Master?”

After all these months without a word, without even a passing glance from his former Padawan while he suffered gruesomely at the hands of the Sith, why has Anakin chosen now to offer his nebulous benevolence, his laughable attempts at fence-mending. Is this truly the latest strategy the Emperor has conjured—to lure Obi-Wan into complacency in a comfortable prison, appealing to his sentiment with the pretense of a lucid Anakin, an Anakin who still ambiguously holds some value to the years of brotherhood and friendship they shared.

The young Sith looks at him for a long time, before addressing his unspoken question. “It was my decision and mine alone, to bring you here.”

The Jedi scoffs, “Your trust must go a long way.”

“And what do you propose?” Anakin flashes a mean, vicious smile. “To open my mind to an intimate master-learner bond? To feel my new Master's joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain as if it were my own? Never again, Obi-Wan. I function independently.”

The remark was meant to hurt, and Obi-Wan certainly felt it, perhaps more deeply than he should. He fights to keep his emotions under control, to harden his defenses as best as he can against Anakin’s petty taunts. But there is no calming voice to guide him now, no comforting presence to soothe his pain, and while Obi-Wan’s wit is perfectly intact, his patience certainly is not.

“And the younglings you slaughtered, your decision and yours alone?”

Anakin pauses, lips pressed to a thin line. “It was my decision to join the Sith,” the response is stiff.

“And what exactly did you achieve? Did the promises of the Dark Lord ring true? Can one truly bask in the wonders of love, without suffering the devastation of loss?”

Padmé is dead. Even secluded in his prison, Obi-Wan had known—the news reaching him in the form of hushed whispers between clones tasked with the burden of keeping him just barely alive. Obi-Wan had mourned for the young Senator, for her innocent child, both deserving of happiness, of life without this insurmountable madness brought by a man who had sworn to love and protect them.

It was a cheap shot—unforgivably low—a careless jibe targeting the loved and the lost, unleashed in a moment of poor judgment and injured pride. So perhaps, it is deserved, this invisible grip around his neck, unyielding like steel. But what’s said is said, and Obi-Wan cannot take it back, cannot even voice his rationalization when his lungs are burning like parchment over fire, his vocal cords crushed beneath pain, rage, and guilt.

Anakin hauls him from the bed, pining him with the Force against the nearest wall. The Jedi can only gape soundlessly, watching on with rising panic, as gold spreads like ink in water in a pair of piercing blue eyes.

“I could have killed you on Mustafar,” Anakin’s voice is a low rumble, vicious and deadly. “I could have left you to rot in your prison. I can kill you now.”

“It would not be the greatest disservice you have done to me,” is Obi-Wan’s response when allowed the most meager gasp for air.

He obviously does not care for his own life anymore, his audacity surprising even himself. Anakin’s laugh is an awful, bitter sound, but the yellowness in his eyes recedes as senseless rage is replaced by measured cruelty.

“I will not kill you, Obi-Wan, no matter how much you provoke me,” the Sith whispers with feigned sweetness, mercifully loosening the Force choke. “But I will if it is truly what you wish. I will only kill you if you beg for your death.”

Anakin releases him completely, watching with deprived satisfaction as Obi-Wan crumbles at his feet, gasping for mouthfuls of air. He waits a long minute for the Jedi to regain the smallest modicum of composure, glaring up at the Sith with labored breath and bleary defiance.

“You truly are the perfect Jedi, Obi-wan,” Anakin deals his final taunt, “So high and mighty in your virtuous talk, believing you are above the crude emotions that makes us human. You renounce your fear of death with unwavering dignity, and yet, you are too proud to beg when stripped of everything you have to live for.”

Obi-Wan does not rise from the floor, even long after Anakin has left the room. He sits with his back to the wall, head bowed towards his raised knees. Days will pass before he sees Anakin again, and it leaves him with plenty of time to contemplate this new uncertainty. His heart weighs heavily in his chest, while the silence of the Force rings hollowly in his ears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan shouts at every opportunity he gets, Anakin's life is a mess, and I refuse to acknowledge that Aayla Secura is dead.
> 
> Enjoy the latest plot and angst!

_This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both the Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi: trust in the Force. Do not return to the Temple; that time has passed and our future is uncertain. We will each be challenged—our trust, our faith, our friendships—but we must persevere, and in time, a new hope will emerge. May the Force be with you, always._

~~

Bail Organa descends from his starship, watching his breath freeze in the cold air before him. The injured among his crew has been stretchered off, while his wife and her handmaidens are ushered to the chambers prepared before their arrival, so they may tend to the children. Bail stands alone by his battered ship, numb to the bustling bodies around him. Finally, they have arrived on Spara’s moon, hidden amidst the giant planet’s gaseous clouds. His wife, his children—they are safe for now.

The rebel faction consists of a motley group—smugglers and pirates, orphans and thieves, Jedi and defected clones—arriving from all corners of the galaxy in the wake of the Empire’s rise. Past enemies are now friends, rivals swearing to temporary brotherhood; there is no discrimination here, among those fighting for their lives.

A calm façade shrouds his lingering fears, as he ponders his own usefulness to the rebellion, and in turn, the likelihood of protection granted to his family. Despite his admirable skill with a blaster, Bail is neither a fighter nor a tactician. He has devoted his life to politics and negotiations, and what good is a Senator without laws to legislate, or a leader without a people to be the voice of?

“Senator Organa.” A familiar voice interrupts his thoughts. “I am relieved to see you alive and well.”

“I too am pleased to arrive here in one piece,” Bail smiles faintly at Aayla Secura, as the young Twi’lek Jedi approaches, “And to find an old friend in such desperate times.”

Aayla had been on the tropical planet of Felucia when she received the warning from Master Yoda to regroup. Her nearest ally had been Master Billaba, who had already requested a meeting after a chilling premonition. This arrangement had been pivotal, as Order 66 commenced not long after Master Billaba had arrived with her Padawan. Only in their combined effort—bless with a touch of good fortune—had they been able to escape Felucia with their lives.

“Master Billaba had been gravely wounded in ensuring our survival,” Aayla says solemnly, her eyes hard as stone, “She died before we were able to reach the rebel destination.”

Bail bows his head. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

It has been difficult to keep contact, but at least forty-five Jedi are confirmed to have survived the initial Order 66. However, the purge is far from over, as Galactic brigades storm across the galaxy in their relentless pursuit of survivors, inspiring fear in every civilization they encounter so to discourage sympathy for the Jedi.

“It is dangerous to stay in one place for too long,” Aayla admits as he leads Bail down the narrow passage of their temporary base, “We have been on the run for months, and our only hope is to remain hidden, until the worst of the purge is over.”

“But who knows how long that will take?” Bail cannot help the skepticism swaying his thoughts, “Since the fall of the Republic and the Jedi Order, there is no power left in the galaxy that can stand up to the Empire.”

“While I do not doubt the supremacy of the Empire,” the Jedi replies calmly, “But to rule the entire galaxy in all its vastness, even the most absolute of power must feel stretched at times.”

“I suppose it’s true,” Bail agrees with a small nod. “Hope is never a disadvantage.”

“At least, Master Yoda thinks so,” Aayla’s smile is distant, but genuine. “In what few words he can spare during these chaotic months.”

“Master Yoda?” Bail halts in his stride, surprised, “I thought he was in his self-imposed exile.” 

Aayla turns to him, mirroring the furrow of his brow, “I am surprised that you are aware of his decision to do so, Senator.”

“I had met with Master Yoda briefly after the commencement of the initial order,” Bail responds truthfully, “I am aware that he and Master Kenobi are among those who survived, but that is the extent of my knowledge. I do not know where to find either of them now.”

Bail understands the Jedi’s secrecy and exclusivity better than most, and in a time when allies are few and scattered, he must appeal to their trust. There is nothing he wishes to hide from Aayla—as limited as his knowledge is—with, of course, the minor exception that his children are the blood and flesh of Lord Vader, a secret carefully shared between only him, his wife, and Yoda.

“It was Master Yoda who made contact with us,” Aayla explains, “We are just as surprised as you.”

“And what about Master Kenobi?” Bail asks, remembering the hologram of his old friend delivering his final message, the recording spreading like wild fire in the immediate aftermath of Order 66. “Have you received a word from him?”

“His status is unknown,” Aayla can only shake her head, “And his fate remains uncertain. Master Yoda can neither sense him among the living nor the Force.”

A unifying Force that holds together the good and the evil, the light and the dark—Bail never quiet managed to wrap his mind around that. But if the Senator had understood correctly from their brief conversation on Polis Massa, Yoda had distanced himself from rebel efforts, fearing his presence will attract the attention of the Sith. The Senator cannot begin to fathom the reason for the Jedi Master’s change of heart, so soon since the Empire overtook the sovereignty of the Republic. He does not hesitate to voice his questions, only half expecting an informative answer from the Twi’lek Jedi.

“I too do not fully understand his decision,” Aayla responds with a furrow between her brows, “But it appears that we are approaching a critical time. We have all felt a great disturbance in the Force, and its significance not even Master Yoda can comprehend just yet.”

~~

Mastery of the more averse range of emotions—anger, frustration, humiliation—often does not come easily to a newly appointed Jedi Knight of twenty-six. Obi-Wan was well aware of his limitations as he stalked into the now Kenobi-Skywalker residence—a droplet of sadness joining his stormy indignation. Qui-Gon’s Force signature overwhelmed his senses, reminding him of his own pain and grief which he had yet to make peace with, in the wake of all the unwelcomed changes he must shoulder.

Anakin followed him inside—a quiet and diminutive figure carrying far more turmoil than his small body and simple child’s mind ought to. It only served to disquiet Obi-Wan even more in his futile struggle for calm. 

It wasn’t the boy’s fault entirely, Obi-Wan tried to tell himself. Two weeks of vigorous Jedi training was hardly enough to compensate for nine basic years without, and the boy was not expected to master his emotions, to cage them cleanly and properly in a way that even Obi-Wan was struggling to do so at the moment.

The Master said nothing as he stormed into the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and dropping it onto the stove with more force than necessary. He tapped on the counter impatiently for the kettle to whistle, purposefully avoiding looking at young boy motionless by the entrance.

Obi-Wan never had the patience to deal with children. He found them loud, needy, insufferably annoying, and selfish, and Anakin—at the awful age of nine—was no exception. Where can Obi-Wan begin to describe his consternation, after he had spend hours in the Council Chamber under endless scrutiny, half-arguing, half-beseeching the Masters to allow this child into the Temple, through not a will of his own, but the dying wish of his old Master. Meanwhile, his own Knighthood was facing the same unrelenting scruples—too untimely, too rushed, also catalyzed by the unforeseeable tragedy. 

It was an ill-fated circumstance, a damned union—a boy too old to be a Jedi to be trained by a Knight too young to be a Master. But Obi-Wan had poured his soul into his arguments, exercised every rhetoric under his sleeve, so that he will not fail Qui-Gon in his death, as he had so shamefully done so in life. And to emerge from the Council Chamber behind the Masters, only to find Anakin amidst a childish brawl—wrestling on the dirt matted training grounds with three other Padawans—it took all of Obi-Wan’s resolve to keep the cacophony of rage and disbelief beneath a fragile mask of calm.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that a child had acted childishly, but the thunder in his chest festered still, worsened by the exhaustion and haunting grief that clouds his logical mind. It would be best if he didn’t speak to Anakin now, postpone the lecture to another time when his energy had replenished and his patience once more intact.

The tea was too hot when he brought it to his lips, and he sighed exasperatedly; another useless grievance thrown his way. Anakin’s dejected figure—shoulders sagged, head bowed—burned at the corner or his eyes, while a tentative touch prodded at his mental shields, so gentle and fleeting that he almost missed it entirely.

 _Bastard kid!_ The sentiment through the Force felt so penetrating, that it caused his breath to hitch. _Worthless slave, just like your mom! You don’t belong here! You’ll never be a Jedi! Go back to the desert you crawled out from!_

Obi-Wan set his cup on the counter, his anger dissipating like mist in the wind. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Padawan?” He turned to Anakin, sympathy more so in his eyes than his voice. He approached the young boy, who was trembling now, as if he couldn’t speak without bursting into tears.

“Jedi are not suppose to feel,” Anakin said stubbornly, his quivering voice betraying the stiffness of his lips. “Jedi are not supposed to let their emotions control them.”

And despite the manic chorus of anger, misery, and shame tormenting the young boy, Obi-Wan could feel the resounding loneliness underneath it all, prickling like splintered ice. It tore at the Master’s heart more than he realized.

_I miss my mom._

The tears did fall then, as Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around the small shaking body, allowing the boy to sob into the folds of his robe.

“It is because I love her that I miss her.” The words were ragged in Anakin’s throat, aching with despair. “Why is it wrong to love her?”

“It is not wrong to love your mother, Anakin.” Obi-Wan rested a hand on the soft, bristly hair, gently stroking. “But we must all learn to let go of love when the time comes, and not allow attachment to hinder our purpose as Jedi, to overshadow the will of the Force. This hardship you feel is natural, young one. You will learn as you grow older and wiser.”

“Then, why do they make fun of me?” Anakin separated from his Master, wiping angrily at his tear-streaked cheeks. “For loving?”

“Because they have not experienced this love, as you have,” Obi-Wan explained, remembering the Masters’ caution regarding the boy’s critical years spent outside of the Temple, relished in the affection and care of his mother. 

It was an attachment unfounded in any Jedi, not even Obi-Wan himself—brought to the Temple from Stewjon at such an early age, with no memory of a family or a mother, who may or may not have loved him. For Anakin, absolving this attachment would not come easily, so integral it had been to his heart and mind. But there was hope still in his malleability, his youth. Qui-Gon had believed in Anakin, and in his death, the faith had befallen to Obi-Wan.

“They don’t have moms?” The Padawan asked with a touch of petulance, to which his Master could only shake his head.

Anakin clenched his jaw, his voice angry, biting, and hateful. “Then, I feel sorry for them.”

~~

The palace library is a magnificent chamber, with high arching ceilings and fretwork walls, lined with shelves after shelves of extensive volumes holding history, colture, and legends of the past. The vast array of books appear endless, the way they reach from floor to ceiling, many only accessible through the winding ladders. A mantle and a fireplace are found in the center of the room, along with a few chairs surrounded by lush carpeting. It is a decorated space, designed to preserve past glories, and Obi-Wan perhaps feels more frustrated than he should to find no datapads, no central computer, or any connection to the outside world.

The rooms he is granted access to constitute a single wing in this embellished prison. Wherever he may be, R4 tails him like a shadow, and it grates at his patience, the way the astromech would screech nonsensically every time he wanders too close to a forbidden quarter. The tranquilizer syringe has not come into play since the night Obi-Wan stumbled into the palace gardens, but the droid did employ mild electrical shocks from time to time, whenever the Jedi Master’s obstinacy reached some triggering threshold.

Meals are delivered three times a day by a protocol droid, the same model as Anakin’s C3PO, save for the silver paint and feminine voice programming. Every morning, noon, and evening, it greets Obi-Wan with a tray carrying a delectable range of hearty soups, spiced meats, fresh fruits, and fine wines. And judging by R4’s attentiveness whenever food is present, rejecting the meal simply is not an option.

Two unproductive days passed, which Obi-Wan spent aimlessly roaming and gaining no new information as to where he is and how he might possibly escape. He has received no word from Anakin, and the stillness of his daily rounds prickles at his nerves like static in the air during the calm before a storm. 

Later that evening, the protocol droid finds him in his personal chamber, after he has resigned to meditation in hopes of coping with the frustration. Obi-Wan watches with thinning patience as the droid ambles towards him in its measured, graceless, robotic steps, balancing a platter of pastries and tea. 

Obi-Wan has always had an aversion to droids that he can never quite explain—that Anakin used to even tease him about. And perhaps, it is ironic now, that all he has are droids for company. Something about their intellect bothers him, the way their minds are powered by circuits and electricity rather than the unifying light of the Force. Conversing with droids feel cold, lackluster, and artificial—an abomination to what sentient beings should be.

Protocol droids, at least, has the capacity to speak a human language. 

“Wait,” Obi-Wan says, straightening in his meditating pose, “Can you stay for a moment?”

“Of course, Master Kenobi,” the droid answers easily as it sets the platter, “How can I be of service?”

“I wish to know where I am,” he asks, and the response is instant, automated. 

“The guest wing of Master Vader’s home.”

“What sector of the galaxy? What world?”

“I am sorry I cannot answer that.”

“What about the prison in which I was held? Can you tell me at least, if we are still on the same planet?”

The protocol droid hesitates, the inquiry clearly beyond the scope of the instructions it was given, but before it can conjure a innocuous response, R4 skids to where Obi-Wan is sitting, bleeping in protest like a small, metal tyrant. 

“R4 wishes to know why you are interested in your former prison,” the protocol droid offers the translation. 

“Solitary confinement has its charms,” Obi-Wan frowns at the astromech, his contempt thinly veiled. R4 stares back with its dark, opaque sensor, almost suggesting a look of stony defiance.

Considering that R4 is Anakin’s astromech now, personally designed to surveil Obi-Wan, any information divulged to the droid might as well be commed directly to Anakin in whatever Sith-hell system he has jettisoned to, pandering to the whims of the Emperor, who for some unfathomable reason, has decided to wash his hands of Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan can’t help but to wonder the extend of trust fostered between the Sith. How much truth can be found in Anakin’s claim that this arrangement had been his decision alone? Surely, he would have to have obtained the Emperor’s approval, in the least. And if the Sith truly functioned so modularly, it is possible that Anakin is unaware of the younglings held in the dungeons beneath the Emperor’ home.

It is a topic of conversation that has plagued his mind since the moment of waking, wisely withheld during his first exchange with Anakin when he had failed to accomplish anything other than to antagonize the young Sith. Considering the swift, decisive strikes of Anakin’s lightsaber as he led the carnage at the Temple, Obi-Wan wondered whether he should mention the children at all. But two days of useless fretting has swayed his mind, and the Jedi will not pretend that he has any other option. Maybe during their next encounter—whenever that may be—Obi-Wan will attempt to appeal to Anakin’s senses, on the off chance that the children are still alive. 

“I was simply curious, that is all,” Obi-Wan responds noncommittally, feigning a light, melodic air, “Thank you for hearing my question.”

He dismisses the protocol droid before rising from his mat, brushing away the wrinkles gathered at the front of his tunic. He can catch R4 in the edge of his eyes, examining every twitch of his muscle, every quirk of his brow.

“Come, R4,” he remarks dryly, motioning for the droid to follow, “I would like a shower before resting for the night. And surely—” he adds at the end of a long sigh. “—You will want to be present for that, as per usual.”

~~

Three more static days pass, before anything remotely unordinary happens. R4 finds Obi-Wan in the sunroom one bright morning, just as the Jedi settled in another attempt to conjure peace and calm. Usually perceptive of his discontentment as a prisoner, R4 rarely burdens their time with conversation, but today proves to be special in some way, as binary breaches his quiet meditation, wrenching him back to the horrid reality.

Obi-Wan follows R4 down corridors he has never accessed, passages he didn’t know existed, until they stand before a set of double doors at some distant edge of the palace. Behind the doors, Obi-Wan can catch the faint hissing of lightsabers accompanied by soft, padded steps—three or more sets of them. 

R4 enters the passage code, as the doors slide open.

“Careful now,” Anakin says to a Rodian youngling, his gloved hand gentle on the small shoulder, “You will leave yourself vulnerable if your movements are too big.”

“Am I doing it right, Master?” Another youngling—a human girl—shouts from across the room, her small body balanced in a basic combat stance.

“Yes, Leoni, that is excellent,” the Sith praises, his smile a flash of white, “You are getting the hang of it.”

Obi-Wan finds himself in a daze, his mind doing a dastardly poor job at assimilating the scene before him. Younglings—four of them, the same four he had last seen cowering in a shadowy dungeon—now stand before him, alive and well and dressed in new training robes, as they twirl their weapons to the tiny beams emitted by floating training droids. But the lightsabers—they are red—garish and awful like the skies of Mustafar.

The children halt in their training upon realizing Obi-Wan’s presence, their weapons dimmed and casted to their sides.

“Good morning, Master Kenobi,” they says in almost unison, bowing in respect before the stunned Jedi.

“Master Kenobi,” Anakin smiles brightly at his former mentor, “I’m happy that you are able to join us.”

The Sith touches the bristly hair of a Padawan as he passes—a regal and fatherly gesture, taunting in its familiarity. Obi-Wan cannot blink away the images of death from his eyes.

“It was Master Kenobi who alerted me of your whereabouts.” The smile Anakin gives him is warm, too warm for the indisputable antagonism they share, “Not long after I rescued him from his prison, as well. The misery you have faced, I am well aware of, but know that it is of the past. You are all safe here.”

Anakin watches Obi-Wan even as the last syllable ends, his voice sounding assuring despite the steel edge in his eyes. Obi-Wan has little doubt that the curt speech was meant for him too, maybe even more so than for the children.

“Are you well, Master Kenobi?” The young girl—Leoni—scampers towards him, her dimpled smile endearing and marred by one missing baby tooth. However, it is in her eyes that Obi-Wan sees the toll of war, a sparkle of childhood forever lost in a pool of emerald green. 

“Yes, I am well,” Obi-Wan struggles for a response, smiling not for his sake. “It is all thanks to—to your Master.”

The last word comes out stiff and unnatural, which does not escape Anakin’s notice. Obi-Wan stands firmly under the scrutiny of narrowed eyes, countering with his own quiet defiance. 

“Go now,” Anakin suddenly says, commanding the attention of a nearby protocol droid. “Return to your chambers, young ones. I wish to speak with Master Kenobi alone.”

A heavy silence fills the empty room, after the last child has retreated. The Sith and the Jedi watch one another in quiet deliberation, the distance between their bodies both finite and immeasurable. Anakin is the first to speak.

“R4 alerted me of your concerns regarding your previous incarceration, and it wasn’t difficult to figure out why. The younglings, they had been taken care of in your absence and before my arrival—they had been scared, but not hurt or malnourished.”

There is almost an air of pride in the way Anakin illuminated the situation, as if his cleverness is deserving of praise. He then continues with further prompting, when nothing but soundless indignation greets him. 

“I have arranged living quarters for them, overseen by training droids. I plan to personally evaluate their progress when possible and teach them in the way of the Force.”

“The way of the Sith,” Obi-Wan corrects with stiff insincerity, and Anakin smiles, almost humored.

“There are more ways than one, to channel the power of the Force.”

“And to emerge with your soul intact?”

“My soul is perfectly intact,” Anakin responds sharply, “And I believe I hold precedence over this argument, considering I have excellent training in both light and dark—the former, you can personally attest to.”

The smile Anakin flashes is a chilling blend of satisfaction and cruelty. Obi-Wan can only respond with a bite of his own. “You are not the boy I trained, _Lord Vader_.”

“You can tell yourself just as much.” Anger finally twists into the handsome features. “It absolves you of nothing.”

Despite his best effort to keep his expression calm, his body language controlled, Obi-Wan cannot help the noticeable rise in his voice. “The boy I trained—my brother, my friend—would never have joined the Sith.”

“Well, what can I say, Obi-Wan?” Anakin merely shrugs. “You miscalculated. You were wrong.”

Obi-Wan clenches his fists beside him, trembling and enraged. “And you have destroyed justice, democracy, peace—for what? To be the puppet of a Sith Lord.”

“Do not lecture me,” Anakin hisses, his frown carrying a familiar petulance and frustration, “Of these noble abstractions when I spent the better years of my Knighthood in the trenches of war, killing without thought beside _you_. We were nothing but weapons for the Jedi.”

“And as a Sith, you are certainly unburdened from killing.” 

Anakin laughs—a hollow, mirthless sound—and after a brief moment of consideration, he lifts a dismissive hand, appearing to wave Obi-Wan away. “I do not wish to engage this conversation any further. You irk me with your sanctimony and cluelessness. I called for you so you may be informed of the younglings’ safety. I have nothing else to say.”

The comment had stung, perhaps more so than it rightfully should have in its lack of obvious hatred or cruelty, all of which Obi-Wan was more than willing to accept. But what Anakin presents to him instead is a mercy without kindness, a blatant dismissal of his justifiable woes, and a questionable aura of sadness so subdued, as if unsure of its own existence. This is not what Anakin— _Vader_ —a Sith should be, and Obi-Wan can only assume it a cruel guise meant to exploit the anguished loved he still holds for his former friend. It would have been much easier to accept his fall, had Anakin simply killed him on Mustafar.

A long moment passes before Obi-Wan finds his voice, hidden somewhere beneath the clamor of anger, frustration, and hurt. “I grow sick of this charade, of this pointless waiting. Tell me why I am here.”

Anakin turns to him, brows furrowing, “You are here because I saved you. You would have died in the prison.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “You may have prevented by death, but there is no solace from this hell you have created. To be alive without the Order, freedom, or the Force—it is hardly a consolation.”

“I bet a dead man would beg to differ,” Anakin responds tightly.

“Tell me, what do you want from me,“ Obi-Wan demands, “The Emperor has already threatened, tempted, and tortured me. He murdered younglings before my eyes. And even if you are to do the same, and ten times over, I will not betray the remaining Jedi.”

Anakin frowns with bemusement, before widening his eyes. “You think this is a trick. I assure you that it is not.”

“Forgive me,” the Jedi grits his teeth, “If my first instinct is not to trust the word of a Sith.”

“I do not care if you take my word or not!” Anakin shouts, his wrath finally broiling over. “If you are simply going to dismiss them as lies. My patience is thin, Obi-Wan, and I desire not to spend my precious hours in senseless disputes.”

“Ah, of course, your hours are certainly precious,” Obi-Wan laughs—a small, sharp, bitter chuckle. “How can I understand in the months I have been imprisoned, tortured for information, at the mercy of your generous new Master.”

An emotion too quick to identify flickers over Anakin’s face, before being concealed by an indignant frown. Obi-Wan carries on, his voice treacherously uneven.

“And here we are, in your charming new home. A cage far too luxurious for a simple Jedi’s taste—”

“If you miss the cellar, the chains, and the electric batons, they can easily be arranged.” Anakin probably meant to sound menacing, but he only manages ‘matter-of-fact,’ pressing a finger to his tired brows.

“And while you do, send my regards to the Emperor,” Obi-Wan mocks, “I am sure he finds your benevolence irksome—if benevolence is what you are striving to enact.”

“I have told you once already” the young Sith snaps, “This has been my decision.”

“And that in itself is impossible to fathom.”

“I am not a puppet, Obi-Wan.”

“Even if a shred of truth can be found in that statement,” Obi-Wan struggles to quiet his slow-simmering rage, “Do you expect me to accept that you can charm the Emperor like magic, to convince him to not only spare my life, but the life of those children, when he had previously reveled in causing pain.”

“What does it matter?” Anakin seethes. “Why do you care about _how_? I did what I had to do. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“There is nothing noble about being a Sith,” Obi-Wan counters with vengeance, “You cannot pretend you are still the Hero with No Fear, with the blood that stains your hands.”

Another flicker—too steady to be panic, too lucid to be rage—shines in Anakin’s eyes. He masters it quickly, but no words leave his mouth.

“Tell me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan continues, each syllable savage and sharp and foreign on his tongue. This is the first time he has uttered Anakin’s name since his failure on Mustafar, and the pain that follows—a cold, serpentine ache knotting in his heart—does not disappoint. “How am I supposed to die?”

Anakin appears baffled, caught out. “What?”

“If not by your blade on Mustafar, and not in the dungeon of a Sith Emperor. How is my death supposed to be played out, to your liking?”

“No, Obi-Wan, stop—”

“Is my knowledge so important to construct such an elaborate ruse? Tell your Emperor that he will be thoroughly disappointed.”

“This is not about—” Anakin’s brooding confidence falters, his words tumbling in the wake of a distinctive, mounting rage, “None of this matters!”

“None of this matters?” Obi-Wan repeats, his laugh derisive. “The death of democracy, the rise of this ruthless Empire, the genocide of an entire culture of people— _our people_ —all designed by one evil man whom you now call Master. How can you stand before me and tell me it does not matter? When the mind and body of the boy, the man I loved, still taunt me now—lost in the same evil that purged all the goodness and hope from the world. Not in a thousand lifetimes would I hope to see this day. So, tell me, Anakin, because I deserve an explanation.”

And that was it—the figurative final straw—that pushes all the remaining consciousness that is Anakin to the consuming rage that is Vader. The Force ripples like static in the air, ominous and overbearing like none Obi-Wan has ever felt before. His vision blurs, his mind clouded with an impenetrable haze that numbs his senses with a primitive, irrational fear. He almost does not recognize the awful scream that tears out of Anakin’s throat.

“I am the Emperor now!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for taking a bit longer than usual for this update. I began working on another Obikin fic, based on the plot of Titanic, if you are interested. It is happier (Obikin-wise) and much closer to completion. Let me know what you think if you decide to stop by!
> 
> I am also thinking about joining the Obikin Big (ish, as in 7500 word minimum) Bang on tumblr, although I am blanking on ideas right now. I would like to finish at least one of my WIPs (likely my Titanic AU, since it's one chapter away from completion) before starting another fic, but I do encourage all authors to join if you have the time!
> 
> Anyway, thank you for those who have taken the time to read and leave encouraging words! It brings me endless joy to find others who share by Obikin grief.

Obi-Wan hisses at the sensation of a small electrical shock coursing his fine capillaries, numbing the nerves at his fingertips. He was never any skilled at tampering with machines, but the years spent living in the same apartment as Anakin—sidestepping the droid pieces that often spilled from his then Padawan’s quarters and regarding the machine parts with mild interest from time to time—have allowed Obi-Wan to adapt to this increasingly tech savvy world, despite his adamant aversion to anything lifeless and metal.

“Oh, Sith,” he cusses softly, rubbing at the spot on his head where he had inadvertently bumped against the underside of his writing desk. He continues his clumsy fumbling with the tangled wires, knowing R4 is bound to return any second from its hourly rounds, so time is certainly of the essence. 

And as if on queue, a series of inquisitive bleeps fill the silence, followed by a demanding prod against his hunched over back. Obi-Wan crawls out from underneath the desk, smiling sheepishly at the small, crimson droid. 

“Found some loose wires that’s making the study lamp flicker. Would you mind holding onto these for me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he touches the two bare wires to the astromech, shielding his eyes as metal ignites with electrical sparks. R4 screeches, panicky and shrill, as its body short circuits and spasms, surrendering control over the various compartments and appendages within its metal casing.

By the time the screeching finally stops, Obi-Wan has already bolted down the hall.

~~

The Jedi traverses the palace with avid, single-minded abandon, charging into the forbidden quarters—the _Emperor’s_ quarters—without even a passing glance. He refuses to play this game any longer, to fall into the role of a pliant prisoner, waiting in passive silence for Anakin to deem the time convenient and appropriate for them to speak.

If what Anakin had shouted were true, then Darth Sidious must be dead. Why else would the Dark Lord relinquish the throne to his young apprentice after decades of anticipation and only an ephemeral reign? But who is left in this galaxy powerful enough to defeat a Sith Lord? Obi-Wan had assumed that Yoda failed in his mission after Sidious’ untimely intervention during their battle on Mustafar. And now, with the Empire reigning supreme and the Order all but extinct, another opportunity shouldn’t have arisen so unexpectedly for the Jedi, even if Master Yoda were lucky enough to escape with his life.

Apprentices often usurp their Masters; it is simply the way of the Sith. To believe that Anakin has betrayed his new master after only a cursory dabble with the dark side, that is nearly as nonsensical as imagining the Jedi salvaging their failures from the grave.

Regardless of the hand that dealt the kill, the fall of Sidious marks the end of a formidable and consuming evil. Perhap, without the Sith Master’s deceit twisting into his mind, there is a possibility that Anakin might me—

 _No_ , Obi-Wan commands himself, casting away the images of ash and fire and small, lifeless bodies. Now is not the time for groundless hope.

Too many rooms exist in this palace, far more than he can search, let alone gain access to, but Obi-Wan has a feeling—a vague hope as to where he might find his former Padawan. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting crimson to the horizon and gold to the soft underbellies of clouds. Playful shadows dance at his feet, as he rounds the corners and escapes down the halls, his soft panting and bare steps echoing against the stillness. At the brink of dusk, there is only one place Anakin would be found.

The doors to the training room are left open, the hissing of a lightsaber clear and unobscured in the connected air. Obi-Wan can feel the hairs at his neck prickle, his stomach clenching in dreadful anticipation as he nears the chamber. No pattering footsteps this time, no inquisitive voices of younglings and Padawans. The Jedi Master inhales deeply, before mustering the courage to chance a glance inside.

Beyond the double doors, he sees swift flashes of red at the end of a strong, gloved hand—swinging up and over, down and through—deflecting blasts of energized particles with decisive, controlled strikes. Anakin balances and turns, extending gracefully beneath the warm caress of golden light. The dark fabric of his robes is damp with sweat, clinging to the chiseled muscle of his chest and back. His eyes are hidden behind a band of black, the knot tied neatly at the base of his neck. 

His pace, his movements, suddenly begin to quicken—so synchronized and fluid that Obi-Wan wonders if it is in fact himself who is trapped in time. He counts seven training droids surrounding Anakin—no eight, nine, ten.

 _Ten._ The Jedi swallows thickly, both awed and daunted at the extraordinary display of power. Anakin’s movements are so remarkable, so swift and with deadly, _beguiling_ accuracy, that Obi-Wan is barely able to follow with his eyes. The average Jedi alone can match three droids, a master perhaps five or six, at best. Ten is unheard of—beyond suicidal if they were indeed outnumbered as such on the battlefield. 

Obi-Wan exhales a trembling breath, fists clenching uselessly at his sides. Is this truly the power the dark side promises? 

A bolt sizzles across the young Sith’s side, leaving a trail of smoke in his robes. Another lapse in concentration results in a blast against his shoulder, the damage minimal considering the droids are equipped to train, rather than to kill. But Anakin is well aware, his features dark and twisting behind the blindfold, as another blast skids across his knee, jarring his balance. He has failed to reach the extraordinary standards he has set for himself, and the sudden flare of anger, the almost childish tantrum that follows, is hardly surprising.

The young Sith roars with heedless rage, extending his long, powerful arms and sending all ten droids crashing into the four walls around him. Obi-Wan stiffens inadvertently from where he stands, his anticipation taking little away from the sheer terror of the display.

Silence follows, with only Anakin’s heavy breathing perturbing the abyss. A gloved hand reaches for the front of his robes, tearing the fabric apart in one reckless effort. Only then does Obi-Wan notice the faint smudges of crimson—blood mixed with sweat—by the young Sith’s bare feet.

A long jagged slash—fringed with the distinct burn scars of a cauterized lightsaber wound—mars Anakin’s tanned back, extending from his right shoulder to the point of his opposite hip. The deeper portions of the laceration, undoubtedly reaching the bone, are hidden beneath bacta, while the less severe segments are exposed and would have closed nicely if allowed the time to heal. 

Patience, however, was never Anakin’s strong suit.

The blindfold is the next to be removed, as the young Sith tears it away from his face, his gold speckled eyes immediately casting to the intruding Jedi.

Obi-Wan stands motionless before Anakin, suddenly self-aware and feeling shamefully out of place. Fear rushes through him like ice in his blood, as he reaches for the Force and finds nothing in return. His long list of grievances for his former Padawan, which had sounded so logical and so articulately construed in his head, have all but evaporated. The former Master cannot even bring his jaws to unhinge under Anakin's relentless scrutiny. 

R4’s indignant bleeps are merely an afterthought, as a sudden bolt of lightning courses through his veins, searing and painful across his back, where the familiar bluntness of an electric baton is pressed against his spine. Obi-Wan crumbles when the weapon is finally removed, face pressed against the training mat as his muscles convulse from residual static. Anakin’s bare feet and ankles, approaching in measured strides, are the last thing Obi-Wan sees before his vision fades to black.

~~

“—not particularly wise of you, former Master of mine.”

Obi-Wan wakes to the trailing fragment of the sentence, the tone of the voice scornful and taunting. He is suspended in midair, restrained by the Force and completely immobile, seeing only the passing tiles along the ceiling as he is propelled forward. A sudden jolt in the Force sends the Jedi plunging, his arms freed just in time to anticipate his fall. But instead of the hard, unforgiving floor, Obi-Wan lands on his bed, bouncing slightly as he struggles to regain equilibrium.

Anakin watches him coldly as he rounds the mattress, dropping into the chair by the nightstand. New robes drape across his chest and shoulders, the fabric thick and opaque, covering the laceration beneath.

“I suggest you forgo your stubborn pride and make peace with your current situation,” the Sith continues with a patronizing air, “I cannot fix you as easily as I fix R4.”

R4 waits by the entrance, sensor quietly blinking. Obi-Wan supposes that short-circuiting the astromech evidently merited a much more severe punishment than the customary tranquilizer needle.

“What do you want, Obi-Wan?” Anakin demands, lips turned down in a small, irritable frown. “Now that you have my full attention.”

Obi-Wan blinks at the young Sith, feeling caught out despite the _days_ he had to prepare for this encounter. His priorities are a scrambled mess, while his practiced words fade in the wake of this new and enlightening information. He wets his drying lips as he watches the Sith warily, knowing he must proceed with caution to obtain the answers he needs.

“Who gave you that lightsaber wound?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Who do you think?” is the snappish response.

“Tell me.”

Anakin scowls, patience obviously thin to begin with. “Take a look around you, where you are, and whose chambers you reside in. You are a smart man, Obi-Wan. Make an intelligent guess.”

The Jedi stiffens at the small outburst, unable to match the Sith’s scrutinizing glare. “Why, Anakin?” he asks, voice laced with a sinking sadness that he wish he could substitute with a rightful rage.

“Is this really so surprising to you?” the young Sith frowns, “Sith kill other Sith.”

“Students kill their Masters,” Obi-Wan corrects, “When they have learned all they could.”

“Your statement is not false.”

“And you expect me to believe,” Obi-Wan bites through gritted teeth, “That you have risen to the rank of a Sith Master, in a matter of—of—”

His sentence breaks off abruptly, as he realizes his lack of any accurate sense of time since the moment the world fell apart. Anakin remains outwardly unchanged—young, daring, and broodingly handsome, despite the new darkness ghosting in his heart—while Obi-Wan is still in his rightful middle age, according to the few times he glimpsed at his reflection in the fresher. They both appear as young as the moment their lightsabers clashed on Mustafar, although Obi-Wan feels as if time has ravaged his heart for a thousand years, in an infinite spiral of pain, sadness, and betrayal.

Anakin doesn’t say a word during his moment of careful deliberation, watching his former master with a vague interest.

“How long was the last Emperor’s rule?” the Jedi finally asks.

“Four months,” replies Anakin.

“And how long since you’ve taken his place?”

“Another four.”

“And in this short time,” Obi-Wan closes his eyes, willing his patience to prevail against the carousel of frustration and doubt, “You managed to betray your new Sith Master?”

“I surpassed him,” Anakin’s lips twist to an enigmatic grin. “His removal from the throne, his necessary end—I thought it would be one of the few things that garners your approval.”

Darth Sidious is the embodiment of heartlessness, savagery, cruelty, and manipulation—the very darkness that threatens the fabric of peace, the irredeemably evil which the Jedi has sworn to destroy. And to share even one commonality with this monster—a mutual apprentice and a demise at the end of a betrayal—the cruel irony of it all is quite the bitter pill to swallow.

“You did not emerge unscathed,” Obi-Wan remarks ruefully, to which Anakin levels his chin in defiance, responding with a righteous air. 

“But the difference is that I have a flesh wound, while Sidious is dead. What better way is there to show that I have surpassed my former master?”

Once again, Anakin uses a circular, deterministic reasoning to justify his actions. Sidious is no longer a useful mentor, because Anakin has managed to kill him, just as the Jedi was doomed to failure, because they had fallen to the ploys of the Sith. The fact that his justification is retrospective, proven only after the deed is done, seems to elude the young Sith entirely. It’s unnerving, tiresome, and _galling_ to follow the twists in his logic.

“What are your plans, then?” Obi-Wan asks, “Now that the galaxy kneels before you?”

“To bring back unity, of course,” the young Sith easily responds, “Peace and justice—”

“What about freedom and democracy?” the Jedi interjects, and the response he receives is stern, calculated.

“I do not oppose either of these notions, but they are a luxury, not a necessity. And emerging from a long war and facing even a longer period of recovery, we cannot spare our time and resources on luxuries.”

“You parrot the words of Darth Sidious,” Obi-Wan’s words are whispered but scathing. “You care only for absolutism and power. You are no different.”

Anakin’s mouth turns to a vicious frown, a grim shadow darkening his features. “A powerful, competent leader can achieve twice as much as your corrupt, fragmented democracy. And what I have managed in eight months, the Jedi and the Republic failed to do for five years.”

“That is because the Sith constructed the Separatist Wars,” Obi-Wan protests.

“And the Jedi allowed themselves to be fooled.”

“And for that, an entire culture of people—Masters, Padawans, younglings—deserves to die?”

“Death is tragic,” Anakin responds tersely, “Regardless of the circumstances. But to misjudge and falter during times of war, death should not be a surprise. You know this better than most, Obi-Wan.”

“Do you consider it your divine right to punish all who have misjudged?” Obi-Wan grits his teeth, voice wavering with rage. “Is this why you killed Sidious, because he misjudged you? Your allegiance, your mutual goal of an imperial galaxy, notwithstanding.”

“I have exceeded him in power and in strength,” Anakin pinches his brows, appearing almost taken aback, “I killed Sidious because he is no longer of use to me.”

“And yet,” the Jedi concludes with a harsh, cynical laugh, “You choose to slay one master while sparing the other.”

Anakin thins his lips to a taunting grin, leaning forward to rest his elbows on parted knees. “Who says you are no longer of use, Obi-Wan?”

The Jedi exhales deeply, calling upon all of his legendary patience not to lash out at the Sith. “Then, tell me, Anakin,” his voice is soft but bitter, “Why do you keep me here?”

Anakin pauses, as if deliberating an answer—or maybe he genuinely is, Obi-Wan cannot tell. It is possible that the young Sith’s actions, in their senselessness and incongruity, fail to adhere even to his own logic. Eventually, Anakin chooses to forgo the question, recalling instead their final duel without any preamble.

“You could have defeated me on Mustafar, the moment I mistimed my jump. It was your duty as a Jedi to kill me, and yet, you did not.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter shut, willing away the guilt that roars and sings in his ears. “A poor judgment, as you might say, surely deserving of death.”

“And it was my duty as a Sith to kill you,” Anakin continues, “And yet, I did not.”

“That,” Obi-Wan sighs, “You must resolve with your own conscience.”

“You loved me, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says rather bluntly, without a hint of cruelness or irony. The Jedi feels his ears redden, the old wounds in his heart, his soul aching tenderly.

“As a brother, a friend,” he swallows with difficulty, “Yes.”

“Do you hate me now?”

“Jedi do not hate.”

“But you have lost hope in me.”

Obi-Wan blinks away, eyes unseeing to some vacant corner of the room. Anakin’s suggestion is…interesting, to say the least, hardly anything the Jedi has actively considered in his painstaking, obsessive deliberations of his former Padawan’s cruel betrayal and his enigmatic actions afterwards. 

Has he given up on Anakin? Has he lost hope? His logic dictates yes. A fallen Jedi, a mass murderer, a ruthless tyrant—Anakin is undeserving of sympathy. But his heart aches and sings and implores for him to reconsider, evoking the pride and love he once felt for his young, unruly Padawan, the trust once bestowed to his closest friend and partner in battle. 

So no, Obi-Wan has not given up hope. It’s there, hidden beneath his anger and guilt, just as painful and cruel as the betrayal Anakin has dealt. Because hope in itself is a betrayal of his own logic, judgment, _purpose_ —a constant reminder of his failure as a Jedi, as well as the reassurance of his failure in the future, to ever make right of their tragic mistakes. He could not kill Anakin on Mustafar, and even in this palace, on some unknown, secluded planet, he cannot kill Anakin, even if given the opportunity. There are no mincing words, no redeeming grace. Obi-Wan has no one to blame but himself.

His silence must have said it all, and the smile Anakin wears is unsettling in its complacency. “I have not lost hope in you either, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan grits his teeth, eyes fixed to his whitening knuckles between the sheets. He cannot bring himself to hate his former Padawan, but he can hate himself—his weakness, his disappointment, his pitiful existence while so many others, more deserving of life and happiness, have died before him. "I will never join you," he whispers.

“Of course not,” Anakin's voice surprisingly nonchalant. “I would be disappointed if you did.”

“Then, tell me. Why do you keep me here?” If not for his love, his hate, or his approval, Obi-Wan demands an answer.

The young Sith rises from his seat, a brief hint of hesitation flashing in lucid blue eyes before everything is hidden behind a perfect mask. The conversation is over—that much is obvious—and Obi-Wan supposes he should feel fortunate to receive an answer at all.

Anakin pauses at the door, sparing the Jedi only a sideway glance, his expression dubious, and perhaps, even a touch sad.

“I need you to be alive.”

~~

With the exception of the few memory-less months as an infant on Stewjon, Obi-Wan had always given his life to the Force, to serve as a protector and a guardian of peace.

“ _I promise to uphold the Jedi Code. I promise to respect all life and to help those weaker than myself. I vow to use the Force only for good, never in anger and only to defend those who cannot defend themselves._ ”

He had never casted any doubt. Even at twenty-six, after swearing the oath at the tender age of twelve, he never once wondered if he had made the right choice, if there was even a choice to be made.

“ _I promise to find new ways to improve myself, so that I may be an example to others, to provide guidance to those who seek it, while not seeking to lead or to rule them._ ”

Obi-Wan had been careful—keeping his emotions compact, his sentiment at bay—even towards Qui-Gon whom he loved dearly, as a mentor, a father, and a friend. Qui-Gon was not a traditional Master, a maverick within the Jedi Order, who often failed to follow the Jedi Code. Qui-Gon lived for the moment, adopting his own free-willed philosophy of instincts and feelings, rather than logic and thinking esteemed by their teachings. 

He laughed too loudly and frequented more brothels that Obi-Wan cared to count. He drank and sang with the creatures of the underbelly and regarded even the most mundane, inauspicious life forms with a twinkle of curiosity in his eyes. It was his whimsicalness, his nonconformity that shaped him to be such a revered learner of the Living Force, allowing him to realize the profound potential within a slave boy forgotten in the sands of Tatooine. 

“ _I am a Jedi in my heart, a Jedi in my mind, a Jedi in my soul, a Jedi in my spirit, and a Jedi in all that I do and say. I choose the path of the Jedi as a way and means to do that which is right, to illumination, to inner peace, and to calmness of mind."_

Obi-Wan was loyal, regarded his Master with infinite respect, but he knew he would never be Qui-Gon. He wished to live by the Code and die by the Code, even though he realized, deep down, the inherent incongruity of a perfect Code designed for imperfect beings. However, when given the choice, Obi-Wan strived for perfection, and his biggest flaw then, must’ve been pride, to believe that letting go of love and attachment would be easy, boundlessly easier than to give up the image he had constructed for himself. 

But faith—faith undulates and tremors through its peaks and valleys, and Obi-Wan had never felt his ground so shaken, his docile heart so consumed with fear, anger, and pain, when he held Qui-Gon’s body in his trembling arms, clinging onto his Master’s dying breaths. 

" _I vow to uphold the Jedi teachings, and hereby devote my life to the cause of the Jedi, that I in turn may earn the right to be called a true Jedi._ ”

Standing by the funeral pyre, he drew his hood low to hide his grief, with his soon-to-be Padawan beside him, a young child of nine already so dangerously full of love and fear. Throughout his entire life, Obi-Wan had wanted to be a Jedi, to embrace wisdom, serenity, and non-attachment, until the day he could at last surrender to the light of the Force. But it was then that Obi-Wan finally understood—with graveness and resounding entirety—that this momentary peace had been nothing but a luxury in his perilous pursuit of perfection. Time will challenge his unwavering faith again and again, through which he will emerge stronger and wiser, but no more closer to abandoning this undying, pitiless pain that aches helplessly and eternally inside his too-human heart.

“ _There is no emotion, there is peace.  
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.  
There is no passion, there is serenity.  
There is no death, there is the Force_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping by! Reviews are cherished and loved xx


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